


Aevum

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Formation of the Republic, Gen, Rachel/Miles Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dual timeline story that explores the formation of the Monroe Republic by linking to Miles's and Bass's war experience. Present storyline begins six months after the blackout when they meet Jeremy, while the past storyline takes place in Afghanistan during a traumatic and formative event in their lives. (A duplicate from fanfiction.net in an effort to consolidate my story collection.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is simply a duplicate of my favorite story of mine from FF.net, originally published from January 13 to February 20, 2013. I wanted to create an archive in one place of my Revolution fics. If you've already read it, nothing to see here! Thanks to all of my lovely readers over there, and if you are new, thanks in advance for reading and reviewing. 
> 
> Aevum = The state that lies between God and man's temporary existence - where the soul goes at death. Eternity. If you believe in that sort of thing. If not: time or timeless - you choose. ;)
> 
> Disclamer: To NBC goeth the spoils.

**_The Present: 6 Months After the Blackout_ **

The two friends supported the injured man, whose dragging feet exuded debilitating fatigue. Blood still trickled from his battered mouth.

Miles's shoulder was getting tired of the dead weight. Bass wasn't looking at his best friend – wasn't talking. Bass's face when Miles had shot the two attackers haunted the taller, dark-haired man. The two marines had watched each other kill time and again under orders, but the context here was all wrong. Still, didn't Bass get it? A world of chaos lay between them and Ben, and they had to make it to Ben. Miles was no superman; he knew he couldn't save the world from spinning off it axis. But he had to do what he could. He'd made a promise to protect his country, and he'd always believed he would die doing it. All he knew was that. And he wasn't dead yet.

"What's your name, man?" Bass finally asked the poor bastard in a somewhat shaky voice.

"Jeremy Baker," the man choked out.

"I'm Bass – Sebastian Monroe – and this is Miles Matheson."

Jeremy tried to nod.

"Need to find a place to bed down for the night – get you some rest," Miles said with his usual economy of words. Back when they were bored on the front lines, Bass would jokingly turn Miles's words into haikus, or what he dubbed, 'wise words from the poet,' to which Miles would roll his eyes. The privates in their unit had actually christened Miles 'the poet' behind his back, though of course they called him 'sarge' to his face. Miles's iron balls in combat were legendary, and he'd been universally respected by the enlisted. Bass never said so, nor did the men, but they all found Miles's terseness comforting. Too much talk in war was cheap.

The limping trio came upon high ground in the woods, and Miles nodded that this seemed as good a place as any to rest up. Bass built a fire, while Miles took a cloth and poured booze on it. "Want some?" He asked Jeremy, and Jeremy took a swig, scowling as the whiskey burned his esophagus. Miles began to clean Jeremy's wounds. "Your ribs might be broken." Miles informed him unhelpfully, "Can't do anything 'bout that."

Jeremy nodded, finding that he liked his blunt but oddly gentle savior. Miles was a large man but had a humble stoop to his shoulders. "You guys seem to know what you're doing out here – more than average folks. What did you do, you know, _before_?" Jeremy asked them.

Miles's dark eyes made brief contact with Jeremy's. "Marines." He looked away, feeling somehow unsure of himself.

Jeremy's bottom lip puffed out, impressed. "Guess I fell in with the right crowd."

Miles shrugged, rubbing his nose violently.

Bass glanced over his shoulder from his crouch by the awakening fire. "We gonna talk about what happened back there, Miles?"

Miles grunted. "What," he stated rather than asked.

"You know what, man. Wasting people…just because we can."

Miles dabbed at Jeremy's bloody neck, scowling.

"Look, I know no one's asking me, but…I'm grateful for what Miles did. I was almost a dead man," Jeremy interjected.

"No offense, man, you seem like a nice guy, but since when do we get to decide who the nice guys are, Miles?" Bass pressed his friend.

Miles finished with Jeremy and stood up to his full height, hands on hips. "I think I have a decent barometer. Fuckholes who go around killing people in their sleep for food: not nice. Nice: people who don't do that."

Bass started to protest again, but Miles interrupted him. "I'm going to walk to Chicago. If you guys wanna come – fine. Along the way, I'll continue to do my job, which is to protect innocent citizens of the United States."

"Aw Miles, look around. There is no United States anymore," Bass objected. "You know that."

Miles turned briefly away, emotion rising. "I don't believe it. It can't have fallen this fast. Not everywhere."

Jeremy gazed down at the dirt and asked cautiously, "What are you looking for in Chicago?"

Bass eyed Miles, as if he too were interested in the response despite knowing the stated reason.

"My brother. And…answers. Ben'll know what to do," Miles said tersely.

 _Ah_ , Bass thought. _Therein lay the tragic optimism._ Since setting off, they hadn't discussed Ben's phone call, warning them of the blackout. How Ben could possibly have known about it in advance was a mystery almost as great as the infinite blackness itself.

"He may be your big brother, man, but trust me – he doesn't know what to do. Nobody does," Bass said bleakly, earning a sharp look from Miles.


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Past_ **

Their unit was in Paktika, an eastern province in Afghanistan that was so rural it almost seemed primeval, as if the humans you ran into were some of the first Homo sapiens to walk planet earth. The landscape was forbidding: bleak, imposing, sandy mountains punctuated by green trees whose foliage offered no respite from frigid winters and blistering summers. Miles's and Bass' unit had been stationed there nearly six months in the worst of the heat. Their official assignment was training the Afghan National Army. Training the locals was almost harder than fighting the war. Most of the so-called soldiers were illiterate, undisciplined civilians plucked out of the barren wilderness, who certainly had no love for Americans. They resisted orders, mocked the Marines, and behaved like unruly children on the playground. The Marines universally despised them and feared the very real possibility that they might have to rely on them as comrades in battle.

These days, with the number of IEDs exploding all around camp, the Americans were convinced some of the Afghani troops were secretly collaborating with the Taliban. The Marines felt impossibly vulnerable - a vast, open sore exposed to the desert sun and sand. To cope with the escalating threat, NATO (in its infinite wisdom) had recently sent in a new unit of U.S. army – such kids, Bass had said to Miles, "Do you think they've gotten their first erections yet?" Miles had just shrugged and glowered at their incompetence. It was clear they were crappy soldiers, and now the veteran Marines had the unpleasant task of wrangling them into shape along with the already troublesome Afghanis.

Miles was shaking his head as he watched a line of the American soldiers head out on a patrol.

"Bass, are you getting a load of these fuckers? Some of them have on baseball caps instead of helmets! Baseball caps!" Miles took off his helmet briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow and adjusted his sunglasses.

"Moronic fucks. They'll get their heads blown off," Bass agreed.

"Dead men have no regrets," Miles mumbled, kicking a rock and send a small plume of dust heavenward.

Bass snickered, because he loved when Miles dispensed the folksy wisdom. "No, but _we_ will when the LT chews us out for seeing this and not doing anything about it," Bass complained, waving at Miles's dust cloud, which had reached his dry nostrils. "Stop kicking up stuff, dickwad." Their tempers were always short in the devastating heat of midday.

Miles exhaled. "I'd like to just shoot them from here, but I guess we should go say something." He glared through his sunglasses.

Neither of the two men moved.

"We could throw a few grenades – not at them, but you know, nearby, to shake 'em up a bit. Give them a sense of their abject stupidity."

"I like it," Miles agreed.

Still neither of them moved.

"It's so fucking hot, Miles. And I have to take a shit."

"So take a shit," Miles responded indifferently. He continued to watch the patrol in gloomy interest.

"Too hot to move. And I'm sick of shitting. It's all we ever do anymore."

"Then take a pill. The medics are all over us with fucking Cipro. It worked the last 2 times we were shitting ourselves raw."

"I'm sick of all the antibiotics, man. Can't be good for us. Don't you become immune at some point?"

"Dunno. What am I – a doctor?" Miles snapped but then admitted, "I'm sick of the pills too. But my ass is starting to burn. Local water is nasty as all fuck."

As Miles completed his last sentence, a massive explosion signaled yet another unleashed IED. The two men looked at each other briefly and dashed off, propelled by a kind of weary adrenaline toward the sound. Next thing they knew, they were pulling body parts out of a hole in the ground. Disorder marked the army soldiers, who were screaming and dashing about like chickens, Miles thought.

"Shut the fuck up!" Bass yelled at one private, whose ears appeared to bleeding. The kid was one of the guys in a baseball cap. The soldier couldn't hear him and kept clinging to the front of Bass's fatigues. Bass pushed him off to help Miles drag a man out of the crater. The man no longer had legs. Medics appeared, as well as more of Bass's and Miles's unit.

"Sgts. Matheson and Monroe on me!" cried their lieutenant.

"Sir!" they responded and crouched by him, ready for orders.

"Command thinks they've sniffed out a possible trail for where these IEDs are coming from. We're on it with a mixed company…" the LT scowled and spat into the dirt, "some Afghanis and a handful of these green soldiers. You two are going to have to whip them into shape." He gave them the rest of their orders, punctuated by a terse, "Got it? You guys are my sergeants, and I'm counting on you. Now make this work!"

"Yes, sir!" Miles and Bass barked before shooting each other filthy glances. As soon as the LT was out of earshot, Bass whispered to Miles, "I really don't want to die in this shit-galaxy of a province, Miles. I fucking hate it here."

"With these douchebags in tow, chances are that's exactly what's gonna happen, man. But first things first: now _I've_ gotta shit. Maybe we should take those goddamned pills before we go on this gig, yeah?"

They never got a chance to take the pills, and so burning asses and all, they set off into the dusty day en route toward what they presumed was a Taliban hideout. Miles and Bass made sure all of the men wore helmets this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Present: 6 Months After the Blackout_ **

"Philadelphia. City of brotherly love," Miles said wistfully or ironically – Jeremy wasn't sure. There was a dryness about Miles's peculiar wit, but since he never smiled or laughed at his own jokes, Jeremy wasn't sure what to make of it yet.

Jeremy thought for a moment and responded with a smirk, "Yep. This was my home actually – grew up here. Now it looks like a Rainforest Cafe, but you know, without the whimsical toucans." Jeremy cocked his head. "Wife and kids died here. Two little ones – just one and three years old. We didn't think to get out of the city until it was too late. Six weeks was too late, if you can believe it."

The Marines were somewhat alarmed by all of the sudden sharing, but they would soon learn to take Jeremy's gushing autobiographical interludes in stride. They exchanged glances, and Bass muttered something about, "Really sorry, man. That fucking sucks." Of course, Bass knew it didn't take a cosmic disaster to destroy the people you loved in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it just took one lousy drunk behind the wheel.

"Hey, when did you guys leave South Carolina, anyway?" Jeremy's verbal diarrhea continued unabated. "You were at Parris Island, you said, right?"

"Four months ago or so," Miles replied, scanning the tall buildings of the horizon. Bass wandered off to take a piss behind the tire of an old big rig. Miles was uncomfortable thinking about carrying on this conversation with Jeremy by himself.

"And still so far from Chicago?" Jeremy followed up.

"Mm-hm. We got tied up here and there. Stopped at DC for a spell," Miles replied, his eyes not moving from one building in particular.

"Find anything of note? A president, perchance?"

"Word is President Obama and anyone else of consequence is dead."

"So…the country _has_ fallen everywhere," Jeremy said with an eyebrow lifted.

"Everywhere we've been, it seems."

"But you think not _everywhere_?"

Miles finally shifted his eyes to survey Jeremy wearily. "Probably everywhere. But it just seems so hard to believe. I mean, guns still work. You'd think the secret service would be worth a fuck." He suddenly put up his hand to stay Jeremy's response. "Bass," Miles hissed. "Quit your pissing and get over here. Something's wrong."

"What, you mean like a blackout wiped out civilization?" Bass announced as he walked up, stuffing his boxers into his pants and zipping his fly. His boxers had miniscule tigers on them, and Miles rolled his eyes as he caught sight of the familiar touch of eccentricity. He knew Bass had received the boxers from a girlfriend – well, a girl who'd wished she was his girlfriend but whom Bass had banged and brushed off, as he had with so many.

Miles pointed at a window of the second story of the building he'd been observing. No sooner had he done so than they were being fired upon by a sniper. The two Marines hit the deck, yanking the shocked Jeremy down with them. They eventually took cover behind the big rig tire.

"I hate to break it to you, but we're sitting in my piss," Bass informed them, adrenaline leavening his fear with giddiness.

"We've got bigger problems than your piss, Bass," Miles replied distractedly, clearly formulating a plan. "Gotta get closer. We should have brought our rifles. Why didn't we?" he asked Bass accusingly.

"We didn't know, man. We didn't know the world had become…this."

"Alright, here's my idea. You guys distract the sniper, while I go and take him out. On three. Ready? One, two, three!" Miles cried, not waiting for his companions to object.

Miles took off toward the sniper, so Bass jumped up and began running straight across to a nearby shelter but not before zigzagging and making a generally irresistible spectacle of himself. Sure enough he drew fire.

Several minutes later the sniper was dead, and Miles had obtained the rifle. "What was that about, you think?" Miles asked when he'd rejoined his friends.

"Dunno…strange, right? Certainly not about taking our food. He just wanted to kill us, as if this city is at war," Bass offered.

This turned out to be exactly the case. One hour later, the three had picked their way through a raging urban battle. They couldn't exactly make out who was fighting whom and why. When they came upon a wounded man dying in an alley, Bass crouched low to see if he could extract some information. The man was attempting to hold his guts in place with his bare hands.

"What's going on here? Why are you fighting?" Bass asked.

"Virginians…trying to sack the capital. Take over Pennsylvania," the dying man rasped. "Our country."

"Your country? What, you mean like a civil war?" Bass almost laughed. He looked back and caught Miles's eye. Miles looked worried.

"It's every state for itself. You'll see. The Virginians are animals. I mean it. I saw one cook and eat a child," the man coughed out, his eyes wide. He writhed in sudden agony.

"Cannibalism?" Bass shook his head in disbelief. "Come on!"

"Put me out of my misery, mister!" the man begged, reaching for Bass's pistol, but his entrails tumbled out further in the process. He sputtered, and his eyes began to drift.

"Sorry, buddy. If we're going to make it through this, we'll need our ammo," Bass said gently.

The trio skulked off, hiding in the shadows, dodging errant bullets.

"Poor bastard," Jeremy commented on the man they'd left to die.

Miles said, "Stories of cannibalism…a civil war? I don't like the sound of this. This is worse than the vigilantism we've been encountering on the road. People carry on like this…they'll kill themselves off. Humans will be extinct. Pennsylvania - it's own country?" he shook his head. His thoughts were fragmented. He couldn't wrap his head around what was happening, but it was very, very bad.

"What do you suggest we do, Miles…we've got two pistols, that stolen rifle. Shouldn't we just move through and head for Chicago? What about finding Ben?" Bass responded.

"You said yourself: Ben can't help us now." Miles stood perfectly still, which Bass recognized as Miles thinking. He'd always joked that it took of all of Miles's energy to think, since it was such a rare occurrence, and therefore Miles had to conserve on other movement. But he didn't think this was funny. Miles was scaring him.

All of a sudden, Miles turned to his best friend, his dark eyes flashing. "We pick a side, and we help. We're in Pennsylvania…so I guess they're the good guys. A lot easier to defend than to attack."

"Are you serious?" Bass gasped, his lips barely moving.

Jeremy was pale as death. "I was a carpenter before the blackout, guys…I've been hunting for sport, but I don't know how to kill a man."

Miles stared straight at Bass. He was clearly serious. So serious, in fact, that several hours later, they had not only fallen in with the Philadelphia defenders, but Miles had somehow taken charge of the repulse. Miles hadn't intended to take over, but it turned out to be a necessity since Miles and Bass were the only people around with any military leadership experience. It took two days of tough fighting, but the Virginians were expelled and slunk back down toward the southern border.

Something new had begun.

That night when the smoke had cleared, Miles and Bass stood at the top of a bell tower staring out at the dark expanse of buildings, alien and machine-like relics of the past. Miles was quiet, but Bass leaned an arm on his best friend's shoulder.

"Our city," Bass said, his voice rising slightly on the last syllable, as if it were a question. "Or at least, we won it today."

Miles glanced at him sidelong. "We should probably stay here and figure out what the hell to do next."

"What have we gotten ourselves into? A pair of Marine sergeants, for Christsakes. Are we really the only people around who can figure out how to defend a city?" A nagging part of Bass thought that, in fact, Miles was the only person around who could defend a city. Bass probably wouldn't have prevailed on his own.

"Well a few of those Pennsylvanians are National Guard, but you know how they are," Miles criticized. "Looks like we're it, and there's a chance those Virginians will be back. Bass, do you really think the states will fight each other for dominance?"

Bass chewed on this for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I do. Makes sense, you know. There are limited resources - food and especially weapons - so people will hoard. They won't stay in pure survival mode forever, you know, protecting only their families. They'll rebuild, form alliances."

"So…what do you think we should do?" Miles asked. Thinking beyond military strategy hurt his brain. He was developing a sharp headache at his temples.

"Well. We're already in it now."

"Yeah."

"And better to get involved early than be late to the game and have no protection. We're Marines. We should play to our strengths."

"What are those?" Miles asked vaguely bemused. He squeezed his temples.

"Well, we helped rebuild in Afghanistan."

"Also helped tear it down."

"But you're really good at training men, Miles, and leading them. You got promoted to sergeant because you have real military talent. I got promoted because I was, well, next to you and had put in my time." Bass had never admitted this aloud before and wasn't sure how he felt about it now.

Miles frowned, as if to say he didn't believe any of that.

"But I paid attention in school more than you, so I can probably figure out some of the more political things," Bass went on. That was an understatement. Miles had been pretty terrible at school, while Bass was a decent student. Bass had let his best friend copy more than one homework assignment back in the day.

"And what…we like, start a country? The country of Pennsylvania? I've never even been here before; neither have you. I feel no fondness for this place. In fact, it depresses me, and it's giving me a headache. Seriously, Bass."

"Well, it's fitting in a way. The United States of America came into being here."

"Hm?"

"You know, the Declaration of Independence. Jesus, Miles, you really didn't listen in history class, did you?"

"Boring."

"1776? Declaring independence from the tyranny of King George to form a new republic? No taxation without representation? We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…"

Miles nodded in irritation. "Sounds familiar. You know what else is self-evident? That you're a patronizing ass."

"Pennsylvania Country sounds lame, though," Bass steamrolled over the insult. "We'd need something cooler."

"God, you're serious about this, aren't you?"

Bass looked down at his forearm. "M Republic? We already have the tattoos."

"Sounds like a dumb James Bond reference, man." Miles looked down at Bass's tattoo, his own covered by his jacket. Under the bold M was imprinted the word: Monroe. "How about the Monroe Republic? Leave _me_ out of this boneheaded idea."

"The Monroe Republic. That does sound intimidating. But no way in hell am I leaving you out of it. You have to be general."

"That's quite a fucking promotion. I've never fielded an army."

"Actually, you just did. For the past two days. Damn impressive really. Still can't figure out how you pulled it off."

"I dunno. I don't think too much. Just do what makes sense."

"Well keep doing it. It's working for you." The corners of Bass's mouth turned up. "So what do you think, brother? You in? I'll only do it if we do it together." Bass held out his hand to shake on it.

"I…" Miles had no idea what to say. Nothing had prepared him for this. He shook his best friend's hand, because he loved and trusted Bass and didn't know what else to do. He had a sense even then that it was the most fateful moment of his life. "Now what?" Miles grimaced.

"All those men are down there, waiting for us to say something. They won because of you."

Miles looked stricken. "I'll stand by you, but I'm not making any speeches."

"Deal." Bass grinned. "But…if you're going to be general, you'll have to get used to making a speech now and then."

Miles gave Bass a look of utter uncertainty. Bass clapped him on the shoulder, feeling something similar but pushing it down. They could do this. Together.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Past**

"Miles? You look pensive, man. It's not normal. At least not for you," Bass said, walking next to his friend in the white-hot sun of afternoon. Bass wanted to sweat but couldn't. He was too dehydrated. He and Miles had to set a good example for the men and not waste their precious water this early on the march.

The mixed company walked behind and in front of the sergeants. The LT (Rupert Johnson – an imposing black man, whose face was pockmarked by ancient acne scars) was the ranking officer, since there were never enough troops in Paktika to fill their needs. Besides him and his two sergeants, he'd been given seven of the green army boys, a medic, and several Afghans, who would serve as guides and translators. Miles and Bass liked their LT, even if he could be stiff. He was reliable and smart under pressure.

"I'm not pensive," Miles said after ages. Bass had forgotten he'd even asked. Bass tried to scratch his burning butt through his pants seam.

"Well _I_ am," Bass responded. "I'm thinking about how much I miss getting laid. It's been almost a year," he admitted forlornly.

"No one wants to hear about your dick, Bass," Miles assured him. He waited a few moments and then said, "I guess I was thinking about Ben's family. Rachel was supposed to have another baby this month."

"Mm. Who's thinking about his dick now?" Bass quietly chastised.

Miles's eyes eviscerated his friend with one glance.

It was a point of tension between Miles and Bass that Miles had harbored a crush on Rachel since the moment Ben had begun dating her in high school. In fact, it appeared to be a point of tension within Miles himself. He'd never been able to admit to his own forbidden feelings. But Bass had seen it more pronounced than ever at the Matheson wedding five years ago. Miles had gotten melancholically drunk and wandered off to sit alone by the lake. When Bass found his best friend, he thought he'd detected tears in Miles's eyes. Real tears. Bass hadn't even been sure until that moment that adult Miles knew how to weep, so impenetrable was Miles's emotional armor. And it wasn't like Miles was doing a lot of crying in private – the friends scarcely spent anytime apart. No, how they were in front of each other was exactly how they were. It was a benefit of decades of friendship. Being together was like being alone, only better.

"Come on, Miles. Lighten up. I'm kidding." Bass wasn't kidding, but he also didn't feel like arguing. He went in for the butt scratch again, but of course, it was hopelessly ensconced by pants and full gear.

Miles bit back, "Very funny." After a beat, he added quietly, "Wiener."

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step," Bass said reflexively and then stopped dead in his tracks. "Wait, what did you call me? A wiener? What is this, the third grade?" He snorted.

Miles also began cracking up, and some of the privates looked nervous, like they weren't sure if they should join in. One tried, and Miles and Bass snapped in unison, "Shut up, grunt." The LT's craggy face was sporting a wide grin.

"You know what ARMY stands for, right?" Bass went on to the soldiers. The Marines continued chuckling, while the privates braced themselves for the worst. "Aren't really Marines ye-"

Bass didn't get to finish his sentence. They were suddenly under fire. Miles tried to hear what the LT was screaming but couldn't. Instead he reached out and grabbed the soldiers within his grasp, tossing them toward cover like rubber chickens, while firing his own weapon. Miles could just make out the black forms of the enemy on the hazy horizon. The Taliban always covered their faces, making them appear more like desert demons than men.

Eventually, the Americans were able to scramble away, taking refuge in a tiny village as night fell. Three of their men had taken bullets – far too many casualties for the minor assault. Bass and Miles knew it was because the soldiers were stupid and undertrained, but now it fell to the medic to patch them up. The doc warned that they should really be sent back, and the LT finally agreed. One private was bad off enough (he'd taken a hole in the cheek) that Johnson ordered the doc to return with the wounded, depriving the current company of any medical aid. The translators, meanwhile, were trying to find them a place to stay safely for the night.

Bass and Miles wandered off to share a little whiskey from a flask. They sat leaning against the clay wall of a house, if they could even call the rudimentary structure a house. A family did appear to live inside.

"So what are they going to name the baby?" Bass asked, taking a long draught.

"Huh?"

"Rachel and Ben. Gave their girl a boy's name, so maybe they'll give the boy a girl's name."

"Charlotte's a girl's name," Miles said somewhat defensively without knowing why. Obviously, Charlie was not the most common nickname for a girl, but he'd always liked it. If he were really honest with himself, he was a touch jealous of Ben's perfect family: his gorgeous wife, his little blonde daughter, and now their new addition. "Anyway," Miles tried to recover, hoping that Bass didn't sense his internal discord, "they picked out the name Daniel. Danny."

Bass nodded, reading Miles's distress as clearly as a front-page headline. "You ever think about what it'd be like to be a parent?"

Miles tried to laugh but it came out as a cough. "I'd be a terrible parent. Look at me. Besides. We're not coming back from this. Right?"

Bass knew Miles meant that they weren't coming back from war in general rather than this particular mission, though having fallen in with this pathetic company did not make for the best odds. He nodded again.

"Sometimes I'm not sure which I want: to come back or not to," Bass finally responded, closing his eyes and knocking his head against the wall, overly hard.

Miles looked at his friend, sensing that melancholy was descending upon both of them with threatening rapidity. After a spell he started singing almost imperceptibly at first and then getting a bit louder:

When I was just a baby,  
My Mama told me, "Son,  
Always be a good boy,  
Don't ever play with guns,"  
But I shot a man in Reno,  
Just to watch him die,  
When I hear that whistle blowin',  
I hang my head and cry.

Bass chuckled when Miles's deep voice scraped the bottom notes on the last line. Bass joined in for the next verse, and they hammed it up together.

I bet there's rich folks eatin',  
In a fancy dining car,  
They're probably drinkin' coffee,  
And smokin' big cigars,  
But I know I had it comin',  
I know I can't be free,  
But those people keep a-movin',  
And that's what tortures me.1

"Miss my guitar," Miles grinned. "Maybe as much as sex."

"Really? That much?" Bass asked in disbelief. "Let's say right now you had to choose between a box or a box with strings? Which would it be?"

"You never stop talking about fucking, do you? Dwelling on it doesn't make it easier to go without," Miles said.

"You brought it up this time." Bass crossed his arms and closed his eyes again.

Miles gazed up at the fantastical assortment of stars - so many it was mind-boggling. He could make out an almost pinkish-yellowish tint to the Milky Way. It was the kind of sight that was difficult to describe to those back at home. Things like this about Afghanistan were almost as alien as all the killing.

A woman's scream pierced the thick desert silence. The two men jumped to their feet and ran toward the sound. What they found was their translators and three army privates inside of a hut arguing with a woman. Her two older sons, cradling a baby, sat terrified in the corner. The translators and her were apparently having words.

Bass tried to intervene, "What's going on here?" but one of the translators pushed the woman down. In retaliation, the taller child ran at the translator, who flung the boy at the wall. The boy cracked his head and crumpled to the floor. Miles ran over to check him – no pulse – but was suddenly thrust back by a strong hand, presumably the child's father come home. The man was instantly struggling with another U.S. soldier but managed to shoot Miles in the thigh, clearly thinking that Miles had just murdered his son. An earnest gunfight broke out, extinguishing the lives of both parents. The remaining son sat in the corner, sobbing along with the hysterical baby.

"Miles!" Bass cried, helping up his friend.

"I'm ok; it's a flesh wound. Goddamn it!" Miles shouted at himself in frustration.

"All right, we've gotta find the LT," Bass said.

But Johnson had appeared and was screaming at everyone. He demanded to know what had happened, but Miles limped away, leaving the explanation to Bass. All he could think about was his leg. He took out a knife, doused it in alcohol and then dug the bullet out of his flesh. One of the privates had followed him out to make sure he was ok but was awed into silence by the ghastly spectacle of Miles performing unhesitating minor surgery on his own leg.

"Sarge?" the soldier finally squeaked.

"What is it, private?" Miles grimaced. He began applying first aid from his kit.

"You need any help, sir?"

"No." Miles stopped and eyed the soldier briefly from under severe eyebrows. He really was a kid - couldn't have been older than 18. The sight reminded Miles of the kids they'd just left behind in the mud hut, who were now parentless. Miles thought to himself, _I hate this fucking place_. He wanted to believe he was doing good – that he was helping. _Isn't it just better to leave these poor people alone?_ Miles couldn't help but ask himself. He shook his head.

"Still staring at me?" he barked at the private.

"It's just…this is the first time I've been in combat." The private was shaking. His skin was the gray-white color of those grits Miles and Bass used to get in South Carolina when they'd head out from base to drink until four or five in the morning and catch an early breakfast at the twenty-four hour diner.

Miles shook his head again. He didn't want to think about this poor kid's problems when they'd just killed three civilians…one of them a child. It didn't matter that it had been an accident. He'd been complicit. They all had.

"Did we really just murder innocent people?" the kid went on, his voice boring into Miles's sanity.

"Well, I wouldn't say that guy with the gun was innocent, Buster," Miles said, reading the kid's name off his uniform. "But yeah…those people are dead. Look, I'm sorry. It's ugly. It's really fucking ugly, but it's what happens out here. Get used to it," Miles snapped. He hated being this mean, knowing the kid's eyeballs had been ripped out of his head and turned on the vilest corners of humanity, but damnit, he'd have to learn. He was a soldier. They all went through this.

"You're used to it?" Buster's voice trembled.

Miles's brown eyes locked with watery hazels. "No."

Eventually Lt. Johnson decided it wasn't safe for them to stay the night in the village after all, so they trudged back out into the blackness. Miles was trying very hard not to show his limp. He couldn't display weakness to the men. They were already vulnerable enough out here.

* * *

1\. Johnny Cash, "Folsom Prison Blues," 1955.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Present: 2 weeks after the birth of the Monroe Republic**

The strange thing was that as soon as Miles and Bass started beefing up fortifications around Philadelphia, people began to return to the city in droves.

"They're hungry for protection. And leadership," Bass said awed and humbled by how something that had started on a whim had exploded into...well he wasn't quite sure what this was. The people began to reoccupy houses and plow under available green space for gardens. Just a few weeks after the repulse of the Virginians, Philly was coming back to life. Maybe the Monroe Republic was a good thing.

Miles, Bass, and Jeremy had taken up residence at the Powel House, a brick mansion, which Jeremy informed them had been built in the mid-1700s and had entertained such guests as General Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and the Marquis de Lafayette. Jeremy, the former carpenter, kept trying to interest his friends in the mahogany wainscoting and other Georgian woodwork of the house, but Miles only seemed to care that it was near Penn's Landing on the Delaware River – a perfect strategic location for transporting goods and for defense purposes.

Miles and Bass were in Bass's office that morning, trying to come up with a list of things to do. The possibilities were endless and yet somehow obscure. Miles's muddy boots were propped up on the oak desk, while Bass sat with a pen poised above paper, chewing on his lip.

"Let's see…oh fuck it. I'm overwhelmed," Bass complained, grasping his blond curls. Miles lifted an eyebrow, as if to say, 'this was your idea.' So Bass tried once more to bring the pen to paper but wrote nothing. "You need more people to build fortifications, right?" he finally asked Miles, trying to shove his friend's filthy boots away with his elbow. "You're getting – what is that - horse shit on my desk?"

"Yeah, Jeremy's been teaching me to ride. I'm pretty good!" Miles responded with something verging on enthusiasm. He allowed his feet to clatter to the floor. Bass rolled his eyes. "You should come out riding with me this afternoon," Miles suggested. "Fresh air."

Bass said, "Horses." He frowned. "Those big, beady eyes, like they're plotting something menacing."

Miles scoffed in amusement.

Bass continued: "Man, I miss cars. Don't you miss the Challenger? It was the one relationship you had that lasted."

"Hell yeah, I miss the old steed. But horses are pretty cool, too. They respond to you – they're alive. They know what you're feeling, and you have to be…right with yourself in a way. It's weird, but I like it."

"Miles is sharing," Bass announced to the empty room, pretending to take notes on his blank sheet. Miles turned a shade of light crimson, which Bass caught out of the corner of his eye. Bass chuckled.

Miles changed back the subject. "Anyway, butt-munch, to answer your earlier question, yes, I need more construction workers. Plus, I should promote a shitload of officers so we can get serious about training the soldiers. Actually, a lot more people than I predicted have volunteered for the new militia." Miles had plastered posters around the city, encouraging people to enlist in the Monroe Militia.

"Well, what else do idle men have to do? They need jobs," Bass commented, leaning on his elbows and uncoiling one of his golden curls with his pen.

"A few women are volunteering, too, Bass," Miles said seriously.

"What are you going to do with them?" Bass raised an eyebrow.

"Let 'em in, I suppose. If they're citizens of the Monroe Republic - " here Miles paused to make a face that suggested how insane the idea of the Monroe Republic remained, "then I guess they should be able to fight for it too."

Bass shrugged. "I like it. Chicks make everything better. They smell nice," Bass offered with a smile.

"Don't patronize my soldiers," Miles said straight-faced. "How are we going to pay all these people who're working for us?"

"Good question. I could really use a secretary, for instance," Bass said. Just then, Jeremy entered the office, so Bass added loudly, "Jeremy is a shitty secretary."

"I'm not your secretary, Bass. I'm Miles's second in command," Jeremy drawled with a grin.

"Lucky me," Miles complained. Jeremy had no military talent (that much was clear), but Miles had to admit, he liked having Jeremy around. The man was uncommonly cheerful, considering everything he'd lost. Miles found he admired Jeremy's character and his willingness to learn and experiment. Also, Jeremy knew how to ride horses; Miles didn't.

"I hate to add more to your little to-do list," Jeremy said, sardonically eying Bass's empty sheet, "but there's about ten people outside of your office waiting to see you. I think they want permission to start up businesses in town. It's kind of amazing how resilient humans are – how with just a little direction, they want to rebuild."

Bass stared off for a moment, as if transfixed by something on the wall. Both Miles and Jeremy glanced back at the wall in confusion and were then startled by Bass's sudden exclamation: "Taxes! Yes. We'll give them permission to set up shop in Philly, but they'll have to pay for it. Then we can pay your troops and builders, Miles," Bass urged.

"Ok," Miles stuck out his bottom lip. "But what are they going to pay us _with_?"

"We'd better start collecting metals – you know gold, silver, bronze, anything we can get our hands on. We've stockpiled all the weapons in town, so we can just start another warehouse for money. If the people don't have any currency, just let them pay in crops or livestock. We can start them on a loan, if need be, since it'll take time to plant. You tell them, Jeremy. Then find me a fucking secretary!"

Jeremy laughed. "Ok, pres. I'm on it."

Miles said, "Not that I don't find taxes fascinating, but if you want my boys – and gals, I guess – to starting rounding up treasure, I'd better get to it." Miles paused. "One question. If people have already started to take gold for themselves…what do you want me to do about it?"

Bass furrowed his brow. "Meaning do you reclaim it by force?"

"Is it really _reclaiming_ if we just decided we want it?"

Bass shrugged. "Our republic – our money…" but his voice sounded uncertain.

"So we're dictators?"

"Well, for now, I think. I mean we need to build the infrastructures as simply as possible, and democracy just gets in the way. But, in time, we should probably hold elections."

Miles nodded. The idea of elections provided some comfort, but Bass was also right about the current need for efficiency. "So how about this? If the money's in an occupied, private residence, I'll leave it to the occupant. But any money in abandoned houses or public spaces are automatic donations to the republic. Besides, we'll be redistributing the gold to the workers anyway. We're doing this because we want to pay people for their hard work."

"Listen to you – a regular Communist!" Bass laughed. Miles glared, so Bass continued. "Look, I think you're right. You're pretty good at this building a country thing. That's why I hired you as my general."

"You hired me as your general, because I was sitting next to you. And hey, are you going to pay _me_ , president?"

"Sure, in whiskey and women."

Miles cocked his head. "Ok. Just keep your hands off my soldiers. I'll gather up any whiskey I find, too…you know, for the republic." Miles winked.

"For the republic!" Bass exclaimed, swiveling in his chair.

Once Miles had left, Bass went to the window, gripping his stomach, which was suddenly beset with pain. He almost worried he was having a heart attack, but figured it was mental: he kept seeing the faces of his dead sisters, lying in their coffins. He was glad they hadn't had to suffer in the aftermath of the blackout – suffer and maybe die like Jeremy's children. What he and Miles had now was the chance to make the world a better place for the kids who had survived. Bass loved America, but there were dark stains on its record, that was for sure. A lot of the bad had come from secrecy – CIA operations, presidential lies. He wanted this republic to be transparent to the citizenry. If there was something he and Miles had learned as sergeants, it was telling God's honest truth even when people didn't want to hear it. If the citizens of the Monroe Republic abided by the laws, paid their taxes, and acted like decent humans, they'd have the absolute right to live happy and productive lives. He envisioned a country without poverty, a country where everyone had enough to eat, where people lived by a code of honor. He could build that for his dead family – after all, this republic bore his family's name.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Past**

The mission was clearly ill-fated, or as Bass said quietly to Miles, "We've been fucked from the beginning. How's your leg?" he added in a whisper. Miles shook his head, his eyes fixed in front of him, scanning for enemy.

It was perhaps three in the morning when Johnson halted the group. "Taliban are supposed to be right over that ridge. I'd rather not do the approach in the dark without reconnaissance, but here we are. Matheson, you take Ray and Buster around on the left by the dune; Monroe takes Shaylor and Hanes."

Miles felt his pulse quickening. He probably should have warned someone that his leg was in fact killing him, but it was too late for that now. He was going to have to hobble straight into this devil's den. When Miles's group departed, it didn't take long for confirmation that the Taliban were indeed nigh. The shots sounded close. On the top of the sandy ledge, Buster got jumpy and started slipping. Miles had to throw himself onto the ground and grab the private's arm, as he slid almost out of reach. Buster's hand was too sweaty to hold onto, and the private dropped all the way down into the ditch below. Buster was now a sitting duck – it was too steep for him to climb back without help. Miles instantly slid down beside him and ordered the frightened Buster to climb on his back like an overstuffed stool. Ray helped pull the kid up off of Miles. Good thing Buster was a teenage twig and weighed about 120 pounds. Miles gazed upward with a fatalistic heaviness. He was never getting back up there, especially not on the throbbing leg. He'd have to find another way.

Miles tried not to attract attention to himself, but he could hear the two men above calling to him in loud, terrified voices. He wished he could make them stop, but then it dawned on him why they were so desperate. Miles wasn't alone in the trench. A man whose face was obscured by dark cloth was on him in a second. The blackness of the face stretched out in an absurd parody until it engulfed Miles's entire consciousness. He wasn't dead yet, but he would soon wish he was.

* * *

The Marines were supposed to be taken off the front line after their mission had gone to hell, but Bass refused, Johnson refused, they all refused. Dog Company pushed until they had been included in the mission to recover their lost sergeant, their "poet." Miles was far too beloved to be given up for lost. Even the army grunt Buster tried to worm his way into the special mission, but as he was not a Marine, he was denied.

Three days after Miles was taken, Bass was sitting on a oil barrel in the bleak sun without any protective gear on. He hadn't slept, and his eyes were getting sunburned. He imagined the cornea peeling off like those astringent facemasks his little sisters used to put on at slumber parties. Still he didn't move or blink. He was irate that the special mission squad hadn't left yet to look for Miles. God knew how long his friend would last. But Miles wasn't dead, of that he was sure. As silly as it sounded, they had spent so much time together, even pissing and shitting together, that if Miles was snuffed out, Bass one hundred percent believed he would feel it in his bones.

Johnson slowly approached his melancholic sergeant, but Bass did not acknowledge the lieutenant's presence. "Monroe: got a job for you," Johnson said dully.

"Can't someone else do it?" Bass muttered.

Johnson put his large hands on his hips. This company had spent a lot of time together and had given up the formalities of military life long ago, but he didn't like the attitude. He knew Bass was hurting – that he had lost something more important to him than a wife or even his own leg, but Bass had to keep living. He had to remain an example for the other men.

"Sergeant, get off that motherfucking barrel and take your orders like a goddamned Marine, or I'll have you court martialed so fast you won't feel my hand up your ass."

Bass's eyes went back into focus, and he stood up at attention. "Yes, sir."

"'Sides, no one else can do this job. You aren't going to like it, but it must be done."

Bass braced himself. He closed his eyes to block out the painful sun.

"We've got a satellite phone for you to use. You're going to call Sgt. Matheson's family."

"His…what?" Bass's eyes flew open.

"Miles has got a brother in Chicago, right? You'll call him. Tell him what happened."

"But…it's gotta be late there. I…I think Rachel, his sister-in-law, just had a baby or something. They might not even be home from the hospital yet," Bass protested desperately. He couldn't handle this.

"Are you done hemming and hawing? Because this is not going to get easier." There was sympathy in Johnson's voice.

Bass's own voice cracked, "But what do I tell them?"

"Same thing we always tell them. We'll get him back. If it takes a week, a month, a year, or ten years. Don't give them any information about where we are or what we're doing here. And make sure they don't talk to the media."

Several minutes later, Bass was standing with a clunky phone grasped in his sweaty hand. A communications specialist helped him dial the number, and he prayed no one would pick up. He was told it was 11 pm in Chicago – that was late for a family with an infant, wasn't it? Even so, Rachel's voice was on the line in an instant.

"Hello?" It was strange to hear such a familiar sound in such a foreign setting.

Bass tried to speak but a squeak came out. This was not good. He'd been holding his emotions at bay, but connecting with Miles's family was causing tears to rush to his eyes at an alarming rate. He tried to think about what Miles would do in this situation. Miles wouldn't cry. Miles would hold it together.

"Rachel. It's…Bass." Bass put his hand on top of his head, like he was trying to keep it from exploding. A tear slipped out. He bit his trembling lip.

"What?" her voice sounded uncertain. The connection wasn't great, but he knew her question wasn't because she hadn't heard him properly.

Even so, he repeated, "It's Bass. In Afghanistan." He felt like an idiot adding that last part.

Rachel and Ben had never received a call from Miles and Bass when they were in a combat zone. Some soldiers called home, Rachel and Ben knew, but never _their_ soldiers. It hurt them that Miles didn't feel the need to let them know he was ok. But the novelty of actually receiving a phone call was terrifying Rachel into a state of stupefied silence.

"Get Ben," Bass said simply, since she wasn't talking.

"Ben," he heard Rachel's shaky voice call. "I'm putting you on speaker, Bass," she said. "Ok, Ben's here. We're ready."

Bass could hear the tension in the air as they braced themselves, probably gripping hands. He could tell Rachel was already crying.

Bass would handle this as Miles would have. Miles would have delivered the news like a man. Bass took a deep breath and willfully stopped his own tears. "Miles is missing. He was taken prisoner by the Taliban. I can't tell you anymore than that."

"What? How? How do you know he was taken prisoner and isn't dead?" Ben's panicked voice bored into the phone.

"I…we didn't find a body. Some of the men were there and saw him taken."

"And no one stopped them?"

"We were on a mission with a lot of inexperienced men." Bass was beginning to feel irritated. Civilians didn't know what it was like out here. The circumstances under which Miles had been taken didn't matter anymore. It mattered that he was gone and that they'd get him back.

"What's going to happen to him?" Rachel asked, sounding weepy in a way that made Bass even more annoyed.

"We'll get him back," Bass responded. He took his hand off his head and made a fist.

"He's my baby brother, Bass," Ben said in a small voice.

"He's my brother too, Ben. He means more to me than…" Bass stopped himself before he went too far. He wanted to say 'than you,' because he knew how much it hurt Miles that his brother and Rachel didn't understand at all Miles's choice to become a Marine. Miles had gone into a funk for a week when he'd found out they'd participated in an anti-war protest at University of Chicago. When Miles had confronted them about it, they said, 'We love you, but we hate these wars. They're wrong.' They were ashamed of Miles and Bass, or so Miles believed. And so Bass had seen his best friend ache in his own silent, private way these nearly ten years of their careers as Marines.

"I'll get Miles back, or I won't come back," Bass said after a moment of pregnant silence.

"Don't say that, Bass!" Rachel protested.

"I've gotta go. Oh…did you have the baby?" Bass asked.

"Yes. His name…" Rachel's voice trembled and broke.

Ben continued for her. "His name is Daniel Miles. Tell Miles if you see him."

"I'll tell him _when_ I see him," Bass promised.

Bass didn't see Miles again for four months, after seven failed rescued missions. When he did lay eyes on his best friend again, Miles Matheson had become someone else, at the time, Bass feared forever. But life turned out to be kinder than that.

* * *

Miles was in a detention center 25 miles east of where he'd been taken from the dunes. Thirty Marines assaulted the prison, a handful of whom Miles had personally led. The Marines were angry and viscous with the Taliban guards, and each soldier broke in his own way when he saw what the enemy had done to their sergeant.

Bass and Lt. Johnson cut off Miles's shackles themselves. Miles had been immobilized in the fetal position, apparently stripped to the bone (though he was so filthy, bloody, and bruised, they couldn't tell at first if they were looking at skin).

Bass fought his emotions as they put a blanket on Miles and placed him gently on a stretcher. Miles winced in agony at any contact.

Miles's eyes were dead - one bright scarlet from a burst blood vessel. Finally, he reached out and grabbed Bass's hand tightly. Bass put his ear close to Miles's dirty, bearded mouth, because his best friend was saying something in earnest. He couldn't make it out – _thank you_?

"Bass," Miles whispered in a faint and defeated voice. And then Bass heard what his friend was so desperate to have him understand. "Kill me."

The bottom of Bass's stomach dropped out, and he started backwards away from Miles. He watched as the men carried Miles out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Present: a few months after the birth of the Monroe Republic**

"We've got problems, Bass." Miles had entered the presidential office without knocking. He was bleary-eyed from staying up late, pondering said problems, and it took him a moment to bring his friend into focus. Miles allowed the amber glow emanating from the fireplace to warm his face. The temperature had been dropping at an alarming rate, as if the blackout were somehow contributing to a colder winter, but so far, with very little snow. It was all of the bitterness of January and none of the beauty.

"Kind of busy here, Miles," Bass returned, his blonde curls oddly sweaty for just sitting at his desk. It was then that Miles noticed the shapely legs under the desk. Someone was definitely on her knees.

"Aw, come on! It's like ten in the morning," Miles objected. He saw Bass tap a suspiciously young-looking redhead in a tight, emerald-green dress on the head, and she got up and scurried off, winking at Miles. Miles folded his arms. Best to stand your ground when Bass was being juvenile.

"You do understand that I hate you right now. I was this close." Bass showed Miles exactly how close with his thumb and index finger.

"Mm, is that also the size of your dick? Because she didn't look very satisfied." Miles briskly pulled up a chair and plopped down.

Bass shook his head. Miles could be rather oblivious to others when he was bent on something. Bass was well accustomed to this irritating trait in his best friend, which only got worse when Miles worked too much. "Well, what do you want, fuckhard?" Bass finally asked impatiently, adjusting himself and squinting at Miles through red-rimmed eyes.

"First of all, Doc Arora –"

"That new doctor you hired," Bass interrupted. "Where's he from originally? He has a familiar accent."

"Afghanistan, actually," Miles answered stiffly. "He was a career army doctor and has some experience managing public health. He's a good asset to the militia."

"No need to get defensive. I like him!" Bass was fighting the urge to get hostile with Miles. For the past month, Miles had been exuding a superior attitude that suggested that he was working a lot harder to construct the republic on the ground. Bass was beginning to feel like Miles didn't appreciate the thinking and planning that occurred in the presidential wing. It was fine and well for Miles to spend the day teaching his men to dig latrines, but Bass was stuck here screaming in the darkness, trying to call order from chaos.

Miles stared intently at Bass.

"So, you were saying? Doc Arora?" Bass finally cut through the silence.

Miles glared at him. "Do you just sit around here getting your knob polished and drinking, or do you actually work from time to time?"

"Miles," Bass warned, his voice shaking slightly, betraying his rising anger. He swallowed to get his temper in check. Arguing with Miles was his least favorite past time. It never got you anywhere, since Miles usually just fumed and then split. "I was up all night looking over civilian disputes in Germantown and trying to set up military courts to hear their cases. I haven't been to bed yet. So when Ellie stopped by to say hello, yeah, I took a break. Don't fuck with me today." Bass rubbed his tired eyes.

To Miles's credit, he was good at dropping things that weren't worth it. Miles continued, "Doc is concerned about the Delaware River. Says people have been dumping in it, even shitting in it. He says if the city gets hit with typhoid fever or cholera we'll have to evacuate."

Bass's eyes went out of focus, so he briefly got up to request that his aide bring them coffee. Coffee was a luxury reserved only for the officers, being as there was a finite and quickly shrinking supply in Pennsylvania. As he strode back toward Miles he said, "Well, this sounds like a job for the militia. Post flyers around the city warning people that if they don't use proper outhouses and dispose of trash in designated zones, then they'll be fined $20 gold. Second time offenders will serve jail time. That should dissuade them. We need to nip this in the balls. Doc's right – won't do to evacuate the city we just established as our capital."

"General. President. Your coffee, sirs," Blakely, the aide, announced, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two tinkling china glasses.

"Thanks, Blakely," Bass responded gratefully. He immediately brought the steaming liquid to his lips. It wasn't good, but it was coffee.

"You're dismissed," added Miles tersely.

Bass lifted an eyebrow. Once the man had left, Bass chided Miles, "You don't have to be short with my orderlies."

Miles pursed his lips and continued his lengthy exposition on their problems. "Kip caught a deserter yesterday, Bass." Kip was a new officer with former air force experience whom had immediately won Miles's trust and respect.

"Really? From our militia? Already?" The shit in the river was one thing, but this was bad news Bass wasn't expecting. "Did he say why he deserted?"

"I just talked to him this morning: Private David Martinez. He said he hadn't really thought through what being a soldier entailed, and he can't stomach being told what to do all the time."

"Well…we could just let him go. He did volunteer."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Ok, so what do you want to do: shoot him?"

"His court martial is next week. I'd like to make an example of him since he's our first case, so I'm thinking he should serve a pretty stiff prison sentence - maybe two years. And…yeah, I think if desertion becomes a major problem, then the death penalty should remain an option. It was still on the books when we were Marines - there for a reason."

Bass watched Miles's impassive face carefully. It was one thing to be a soldier, a cog in the system, but to be the one doling out potential death by firing squad felt very different. He wondered if Miles was really as committed to the threat as he sounded.

But Miles had already moved on. "Last thing, and this is the big one. A couple of days ago, I pushed out a bit toward the western boundary like we talked about. There's resistance there, Bass. People didn't agree to be governed, and they don't think they need our protection. They haven't dealt with any invasions from outsiders yet, and even if they did, they've got their own guns. Lot's more than I expected."

Bass's head was beginning to pound despite the coffee. Miles was not kidding when he said they had problems. "They're armed, huh? Did you and your men feel threatened?"

"We mostly just passed through and delivered the broadsides asking people to pay their taxes in exchange for the protection and governance of the republic. A few got pretty hostile and tried to chase us off their property."

"And you…?"

"I told them they had two weeks to get together the money they owed, and we left as calmly and orderly as possible."

"And no shots were fired?"

"Not yet."

"Everyone would be a lot safer if only _we_ had the guns," Bass murmured. "Plus if we had the sole power to protect, these outliers would be begging to come to us. You'll have to take their guns away, Miles; there's no other way. I'll issue the new edict – firearms are restricted to the Monroe Militia. Damn, just more legal issues the military courts will have to deal with. We need to simplify somehow."

"You could always make the death penalty the punishment for every offense. That would keep people in line." Miles sipped his coffee and then smirked.

Bass shot Miles a dark glance.

"No?" Miles continued, "Then, I'll have the troops clear out more prison cells, because I have a feeling they'll fill up pretty quickly. Those westerners will not give up their guns without a fight." Miles's face went serious again. "On that note, our troops need to appear the consummate professionals. We need to instill confidence that we may have the firearms, but that's because we intend to protect not to harm. Everyone must be in uniform, in formation, flying colors, the whole nine. And I'd like the president to ride out with me. I don't want to do this alone." Miles raised his eyebrows. "Or are you too _busy_?"

"I'll come," Bass ignored the tone. He had a premonition that things were going to get really ugly in the west, and he didn't want Miles to make delicate decisions alone. Miles didn't always envision the consequences of his actions, especially when in danger. Further, he didn't want Miles going into a potentially volatile situation this wound up. So he added, "But Rome wasn't built in a day. We'll need at least a week to ready the troops. What do you say we cut loose a little tonight? Have a little party before our western campaign?"

Miles had to admit that he could use a break. He had pilfered a considerable quantity of booze from Philadelphia and didn't mind the idea of tapping into it. "Sounds good. I could use a night off."

"Good. Because I think we should consider pushing all the way out Chicago."

Bass could see Miles's Adam's apple move.

"Miles, before you say anything," Bass put up his hand. "One way for us to secure the trust and respect of the people is to get some kind of handle on the great mystery at the center of this fucked up reality. You know who has that information. We were looking for him once at your insistence. What happened to our original quest?"

Miles stared at the floor. "I'm not sure I want to find him now."

"Why?"

Miles never answered. He got up after a spell and walked out.

* * *

"I told you I'd pay you in whiskey and woman," Bass slurred to Miles.

Miles was wasted too. Jeremy, Kip, and the two Marines were playing poker along with a few women whom Bass had invited to their party. Miles wondered where Bass even found this endless stream of skimpy-appareled ladies, but he wasn't suspicious enough to prevent one from perching on his knee. She was a gorgeous black woman with insanely long legs and a snake tattoo slithering from one ankle all the way up her inner thigh and out of sight. Imaging that snake's head under her tight, red dress was driving Miles to distraction. The woman draped her arm casually around his neck just as he was about to make a play.

"Are you sure you want to do that, baby?" She whispered in his ear, sending chills down his spine. Miles realized that it had been an extraordinarily long time since he had sat this close to a woman. Suddenly he sympathized with Bass's state earlier that day. One of her legs fell in between his, and his heart thudded in his chest.

"You play?" he asked the woman. She'd said her name was Grey, which struck him as mysterious and sexy. Hell, it was probably made up and something he'd think was stupid when he sobered up.

She nodded.

"I fold. And I'm out," Miles said suddenly.

Grey chuckled.

"Aw, come on, you fucker. If you leave, we get to keep your gold!" Jeremy complained. Kip and Bass smiled at their cards.

"Oh, let him go, boy," Kip said in his rich voice.

"Yeah, it's been ages since Miles got laid. Hope everything sill works for you, buddy," Bass encouraged.

Miles slowly extended his middle finger at his drunk friends as he followed Grey, leading him by the hand like a child.

Once they were alone in the hallway, she got frank with him: "Look, General. I want you, too. I think you're fucking sexy, and this won't exactly be a chore for me. But I've got to make a living, and these looks are all I've got out here to get by on." Miles swallowed. He'd never paid for sex before, and he wasn't sure he was prepared to do it now.

"You could just stay here. We'd take care of you at the house," Miles suggested, not even sure what he meant by that.

"You're prepared to become a pimp?"

Miles didn't like the sound of that. "No." Bass and Miles had talked about creating a republic that was based on law and order. How was it acceptable to impose laws on the people and then invite prostitutes into their own house?

"So, you'll pay me for tonight, and we'll both get what we want." Grey had put her hand uncomfortably low on Miles's stomach.

A lot of soldiers Miles had known throughout the years had been with hookers, and so he justified this as a mild transgression.

Years later when Miles was with Nora Clayton, Bass would crack a joke about Miles's uncharacteristic tryst with Grey. In the moment, Nora would notice something transform about Miles's face but wouldn't ask.

_In bed that night, Miles said to her, "Does it bother you that I've paid for sex?"_

_The corners of Nora's mouth started to turn up, because it was unlike Miles to ask such an open question. She found it oddly sweet – a sign that he really cared for her. But she fought the urge to smile and simply said: "No. Neither one of us is exactly what I'd call chaste. I don't really care who you've been with."_

_Miles still looked restless, so after a moment she added, "Does it bother **you** that you've paid for sex?" She didn't really expect him to answer, but he did._

_"Yes."_

_"Why?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Miles that woman – Grey, or whatever Bass said her name was – was surviving, just like everyone else. You know, not everything is about you and your stupid honor...or lack thereof."_

_Miles gazed at her grumpily. "I didn't say this was about my honor."_

_"Mm hm," Nora rolled her eyes. "Incapacity to forgive yourself is the excuse of egomaniacs, or so my dad used to say."_

_Miles snorted. "He did not say that to a child."_

_"He did."_

_"Nice."_

_"He was wise. If not nice."_

_While Nora would often read Miles better than he could himself, what she didn't understand was how much Miles's night with Grey marked the beginning of something new in him. But Nora only knew Miles after the change._

It had been so subtle at the time – the delicate recalibrating of power. Miles had convinced himself between the sheets with Grey that somehow they were both vulnerable, but he wasn't being honest. He was general of the Monroe Militia, founding father of the republic. He had coffee and whiskey and the death penalty at his fingertips. Grey was just his subject.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Past**

Miles was evacuated to a hospital, and about a week later, Bass was allowed to visit him. Miles was sharing his room with a soldier who had had a leg blown off. The bandaged stump was elevated by several pillows, and Bass could see the faint tint of yellow seeping through the pristine whiteness. As Bass walked by and grabbed a chair to pull up to Miles's side, the wounded soldier looked at him quietly, his eyes a perfect shade of arctic blue. Bass tried not to visibly shudder. It was important to act like himself around Miles. The only problem was, he was having difficulty remembering what he used to be like before his best friend was taken by the Taliban. Every time Bass wasn't directly engaged in doing something, his mind wandered back to seeing Miles's broken body being carried out on the stretcher and hearing him beg for death. Bass was almost afraid to see Miles again, believing that somehow his best friend had morphed into an unrecognizable monster. But as Bass bravely made his way past the amputee and pulled the curtain blocking Miles from view, he relaxed. It was just Miles. He had known and loved this man since they were boys. Bass could do this.

Miles was lying on his stomach, his face on the pillow turned toward the concrete wall. He looked much better; most of the bruises had faded, and someone had shaved his beard. But his eyes were a different story: black and unblinking. Bass squeezed the chair in between the wall and bed so that Miles had to look at him.

"Hey, buddy. How are you feeling?" Bass began saying in an unnaturally cheerful voice, which he quickly adjusted down a notch. "You'll get another purple heart for this, you know. Two purples hearts before 30. That's some track record. Maybe not one to be proud of…but a track record! And the LT put you up for a medal for bravery for saving that Buster kid. If you get it, you'll be one decorated son of a bitch." Bass forced a smile.

Miles did not respond, but he did blink. A sign of life.

Bass said caringly, "They're sending you home, brother. It'll be good for you to be home."

"Don't want to go," a voice so rough it didn't sound like Miles replied.

Bass put his had on Miles's, which was splayed out palm up toward the ceiling. "Got to. I'd give my left nut to go with you – you know I would. All this time…we've never really been apart, have we?" He wasn't about to mention the four months they'd recently spent apart. Bass had barely been sane for them anyway.

Bass continued, "You know, I've been dying to tell you. Rachel had that baby. Daniel Miles. Ben told me. He named his son for you."

Miles put his hand in front of his face as if to shield it from Bass's words.

"Hey," Bass said gently. It was agony to watch Miles so lost. "You're going to be ok. You'll get better. Then, in a few more months, I'll be home, and it'll be just like old times."

Miles turned his face the other direction on his pillow, but Bass refused to let go of Miles's hot hand. Bass was out of words and since Miles wasn't looking at him anyway, he permitted a few tears to roll down his cheeks. They stung like poison.

* * *

It was determined that after a trauma like Miles's, he should recover at home with family. Miles's and Ben's mother had died when they were children, and their father, well, he was not someone one went to in a time of need. Besides, he had moved to Florida to escape the frigidity of the Midwest. So several weeks later, Miles had the humiliating task of calling Ben to ask to be taken in like a homeless child.

"Ben. It's Miles," Miles said into the phone, sitting on a cot, pulling on the dog tags at his neck.

"You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice," Ben answered genuinely.

"I'm…I'm being sent home to rest. I don't have anywhere to go…"

"Of course, you'll stay with us, Miles."

Miles felt some relief at his brother's warmth, but there was more: "I have three months leave…it'll be a big inconvenience."

"No. We're so glad to have you home with us, except…man, I'm so sorry about this, but I have a visiting professorship at Stanford for a semester. I've already committed. I could try to see if they'd postpone, but I'm filling in for someone on leave…"

"No. You've got to go – I don't want to get in the way."

"Rachel will take good care of you. The kids will be there to cheer you up."

Miles dropped his tags with a jingle and violently gripped his neck. "Rachel's got so much to deal with already. I could just go to base in South Carolina…" The idea of being alone with Rachel and the kids terrified him.

"Listen, Miles. You're our family. And for once, my badass Marine of a little brother needs me. I'm so sorry I won't be there the whole time, but I've still got a week before I have to leave. I'll pick you up at the airport; we'll spend some time together."

"Ok," Miles said dully. After they'd arranged the details, Miles said: "See you."

"Miles," Ben cut in. "I love you."

"Jesus," Miles mumbled to himself, alarmed by this expression of emotion. He didn't recall Ben saying those words to him before. Miles didn't know what to do with it, so he simply repeated, "I'll see you."

* * *

Flying back from a tour was always eerie but doing it without Bass for the first time made Miles feel less than human. For the first leg of his journey to Germany, Miles was in uniform and received a lot of sympathetic stares, which he tried not to notice. He couldn't help but interpret them as pity, and there was almost nothing he was more afraid of than being pitied for what he'd experienced. He had avoided Bass's eyes at the hospital for that very reason; if Bass stopped respecting him, then his captors had won.

For the second leg of his interminable journey, Miles at least blended in with the civilians in a sweatshirt and jeans (though the Marine 'high and tight' haircut may have given him away to the discerning). The only problem was, he could tell he wasn't acting normally, but he didn't know how to fix it. On the plane, he couldn't hear anything the stewardess said to him, even before the pressure of flying upset his inner ears' equilibrium.

"Sir, would you like to sit in the emergency exit row? There will be more room for your legs," the stewardess said for the third or fourth time. She looked impatient.

Miles was a large man – true, he had lost an alarming amount of muscle mass in the past four months, but his knees still stretched awkwardly toward his chin.

"Oh…yes, ma'am," he finally replied. He only glanced at her, but he sensed it like a bad odor – the pity. He hadn't responded in a timely manner, and it had given him away as a mental case.

He spent the majority of the flight with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, praying that no one would ask if he so much as wanted a drink.

And then, just like that, he was home. The miracle of modern man's achievements. One minute you were in an Afghan prison and the next your big brother was standing there, looking just as boyish as ever with his floppy brown hair and crinkly eyes.

"Miles," Ben said at baggage claim, stepping forward and taking his taller brother into his arms for a tight hug. Miles's heart surged with pain. He felt embarrassed. People were looking at how long Ben was embracing him. Ben finally let go and took one of Miles's bags to sling over his shoulder.

"God, this is heavy. What's in it? Not your gun, right?" Ben added with sudden alarm, fearing the idea that Miles might bring a dangerous weapon near his two small children.

"No, we don't bring M-16s home, Ben," Miles replied, vaguely irritated. For some reason, Miles took the implication far too personally – like if Ben didn't like the idea that Miles used a gun, then Ben didn't respect him as a Marine. Miles had only been home one minute and was already descending into the childish little brother.

They exited into the cold of Chicago night, reminding Miles how unkind the Midwest could be to humans in winter. But he found he didn't mind it at the moment. He was cold inside and welcomed the biting air as an extension of himself. They got into Ben's car, and everything they did – so normal for civilians – felt completely alien and obscure to Miles. He stared at his seatbelt for an inordinately long moment before remembering to click it into place. Ben noted all of this silently as he headed out onto the highway. After awhile, Ben spoke in a gentle voice that again irritated Miles, because it was clear his brother was treading lightly around him - as if he were a dying cancer patient.

"Look, I don't want to pry, Miles, but…did the military set you up with some help?" Ben was taking in his brother's appearance in small glances, because it frightened him so much. Miles didn't physically look so very different. Sure he was thin, but it wasn't that. It was the hollow eyes that he no longer recognized. Like Miles wasn't in there. He also sensed that Miles was prickly and that everything he was doing and saying was wrong.

"What?" Miles muttered.

"You know, like a doctor. Because Rachel and I know a few really good psychiatrists through the university. They'd see you for almost nothing."

This line of conversation made Miles so tired that he simply nodded. He wasn't sure what he'd agreed to.

When they got to Ben's duplex, things got even worse for Miles. He found he couldn't look Rachel in the eye – that he was actually frightened of her. She tried to hug him, and he physically stepped aside. He sensed her hurt but couldn't stand the thought of being touched again.

Charlie was in bed, but Rachel recovered to introduce him to Danny.

"Do you want to hold him?" Rachel asked uncertainly.

Miles responded in a voice that was far from steady: "No…I'd like to go to bed."

* * *

Ben didn't get to spend the week with his brother he'd envisioned. Miles hardly left Charlie's room (Charlie was staying with the baby) except to use the toilet. When Ben went to say goodbye before departing for California, Miles didn't even get up to say goodbye.

There was no TV in Charlie's room, and Miles hated reading, so he simply sat in bed and stared. His stubble grew to the point where Charlie dubbed him, "Gizzy Bear," when she occasionally brought him toast in bed or came to retrieve a toy.

Finally, on day nine of Miles's inertia, Rachel's concern peaked. She was on her way to drop off the kids at daycare and stopped in his room. Miles was half sitting up in a sweat-stained gray t-shirt, fiddling with his dog tags. He barely looked at her when she came in.

"Miles, I want you to do something for me. In fact, I'm begging you. Please get out of bed today. At least let me change the sheets." The room smelled stale, so she could only imagine the bed. "This is really unhealthy, and you're not going to get better this way. Also Bass emailed. He's going to give you a call tomorrow at our home number. You don't want to have to tell him that you haven't moved since you got home, do you?" Rachel was attempting some mix of compassion and what she imagined as tough love. Hell, Miles was a Marine. Maybe she should bark orders at him. "I thought soldiers don't give up," she added somewhat sharply.

Miles's unfocused dark eyes locked with hers. "I'm not a soldier. I'm a Marine."

She'd heard Miles and Bass say this before, and she never understood their insistence on the distinction. She made a small sound of frustration as Charlie thudded into her side. Rachel began to usher her daughter out.

"Bye, Gizzy Bear!" Charlie shouted cheerfully. Miles waved at her. He almost felt the corners of his mouth move. He liked that Charlie had no idea that he was completely, inside-out, fucked up. He imagined for a moment that if he could just see himself through her eyes, then maybe he could survive this.

Miles decided that he was going to count to ten, and when he reached ten, he was going to get up. By 5pm, he reached ten for the umpteenth time and finally eased his way out of the covers. He forced himself to shower and shave. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he was truly disgusted with how much he had withered. He promised himself that tomorrow he'd begin to get back into shape.

Before Rachel could get home, Miles headed to a local bar. He drank for a few hours with a bubbly blonde woman – Sheila - who eventually took him home to her shitty apartment. It was the kind of place that had indoor Christmas lights strung up all year long and old Corona bottles on the mantel.

Miles was already tipsy when she put another beer in his hand, and he sank into her overstuffed chair. She flipped on the TV, by which he immediately became entranced, considering how long it had been since he'd watched TV. He didn't even care that it was the news. Miles didn't notice that Shelia was stripping down to her bra and panties until she lowered herself onto his lap. He didn't want to look into her eyes, so he drew her close enough that he could still watch the news over her shoulder. She was kissing his neck, her hands running up under his shirt. And then it dawned on Miles that something was wrong. He wasn't getting hard. At first he thought it was just the alcohol, but then he started panicking. When her lips suctioned onto his, he thought he'd suffocate. He pushed her off, rougher than intended, and she stumbled to get her footing.

When Miles finally looked at her face, he saw shock and humiliation. He hated himself for his cruelty but had to get out. He didn't even apologize; he just ran for it.

Miles unlocked the door to Ben's home, feeling like he'd just committed a criminal act. When he entered the living room, Rachel was there, feeding her baby boy on the couch. She was humming in a low, soothing voice, and Miles could see her breast. Rachel looked up at him and smiled warmly.

Miles was as drawn to her glow as he had been by Sheila's TV. He came and sat on the floor next to Rachel's legs, leaning his back against the sofa. It was the first time he'd touched her since he'd come to stay. She kept singing in that comforting tone and reached down to rake her nails over Miles's scalp – a gesture so tender that Miles closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against her leg. His chest ached so badly that he thought it would explode. This was like having a mother again…but somehow something more. She scratched his head rhythmically, hypnotically. After a few minutes, his chest began to ease ever so slightly.

An eternity later, she whispered: "Be strong, Miles. Be strong."

Oddly, this was exactly what he wanted to hear.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Present: one week after the decision to embark on a western campaign**

In his office, Miles was pouring over logistics for the western campaign – how to feed the men, quarter them, and keep them warm. It was a bad time of year to do anything – he should really be wintering the troops and training them, but he also recognized that if they were going to subdue hostile people, they could use the winter to their advantage. People would be vulnerable, maybe even starving. If the Militia could offer food and resources, even the recalcitrant might come into the fold.

Further, the Militia needed to establish order immediately, before someone else did…in fact Miles feared it was already too late for that. Something Miles hadn't told Bass - because he wasn't quite sure how to articulate what he'd seen - was that he'd sensed that some of the armed civilians he'd met weren't operating alone. Perhaps they had formed their own militias, just less organized – no uniforms but a stockpile of weapons to fall back upon. If this were the case, were they attached to rudimentary governments, their own versions of the Monroe Republic? Miles wasn't sure if he'd concocted this scenario in a fit of paranoia, or if it was real, but he wanted Bass to see with his own eyes and weigh in. Bass was often better at reading civilians. Miles too quickly fell back on contempt and expediency.

"General," Jeremy drawled, entering Miles's office.

Miles was glad to see him at the moment. Jeremy was questionable in the field, but he would have made a decent Quartermaster General. Only problem was that Miles couldn't convince Jeremy that he was best behind a desk.

Miles called him over to look at a map. "Jeremy, c'mere and tell me what you think about some of these camp locations. Good water supply, open high ground, but also near towns to requisition food."

"Mm hm," Jeremy mumbled, rubbing his chin as his eyes traveled the map. "People aren't going to like it if you take their food, especially in the winter. You know, General George Washington always asked civilians nicely – never seized. It's why people liked him and elected him president." Jeremy's lively eyes glanced up to spar with Miles, extracting a scowl from the general. But Miles also recognized the truth in the words.

"Well, no one elected me, and I'm sure as hell not likable," Miles groused. "Most of all, you'll never see me getting embroiled in a war of attrition like Washington." Miles immediately regretted saying that. Fate had a terrible way of throwing 'nevers' right back in your face.

Jeremy shrugged. "A glorious sentiment, but I'd just like to remind you that he did win the Revolutionary War. Speaking of attrition, Miles, I have some bad news for you."

Ever since Miles and Bass had ventured into Philly, everything had been bad news, it seemed. Miles scooted out his chair and said, "Let's walk. Need to check on the supplies."

They opened the front door on another washed-out, uninviting morning in Philadelphia. Jeremy explained as they walked, "Once the troops heard we were going on a winter campaign, some deserted. They're new to soldiering, and, well, sir, they don't really understand why this is so pressing that we need to go now in the dead of winter. It's freezing, and they're tired of being ordered around and…"

"How many?" Miles asked in a low voice that made Jeremy swallow.

"Um…maybe thirty."

"Thirty? _Maybe_? Didn't you check the rolls?"

"It's thirty-seven, Miles." Jeremy stole a glance at his friend out of the corner of his eye and saw Miles's jaw twitch.

"Thirty-seven. Now that's a big difference from thirty, isn't it?" Miles felt his heart rate increasing. "That's _mass_ desertion. When did they go?"

"Last night, under cover of darkness," Jeremy said, watching his own boots grind into the frozen soil. He found he was increasingly eager to finish this conversation and put some distance between him and the general.

Miles hated when Jeremy said things like 'under cover of darkness.' It made Miles feel like Jeremy was playing at soldier – repeating things he'd heard in movies. This was not a game. They were losing control of the troops.

Miles fought to extract the anger from his voice: "And have they been caught?"

"Some of them."

" _Some_ , Jeremy?" The ire shot back into Miles's tone. "Use numbers, goddamnit."

"Five."

Miles shook his head, his chest heaving now. He forced them both to stop, though he could see how eager Jeremy was to walk on.

"Private Martinez's court martial is this morning?" Miles asked tersely.

"Yes, sir, right now." Jeremy used the honorific far more frequently when Miles was making him uncomfortable. It was one way of putting space between them.

"If Martinez is convicted – and I assume he will be, as he's already confessed – then I want the full letter of the law brought down on him."

"I thought..." Jeremy paused. "You said it would be a stiff prison sentence."

"Now it's death by firing squad," Miles said matter-of-factly. "Have the troops – _all_ of them, even the prisoners – in formation at 1300."

He watched Jeremy begin to form a protest, "Miles…"

"That's an order, Captain!" Miles barked and walked briskly off toward the stables.

Miles was having difficulty managing his temper and tried to calm himself with the sight of the horses – the graceful curves of their necks, the warm eyes, the delicate veined legs sloping into sturdy hooves.

He passed into his own horse's stall and whispered, "Hey Zep," gently running his fingers over her withers, before moving on. Zeppelin's stall was right next to Bass's horse: Gunsmoke. "Smoke," Miles greeted her. "Good girl." He scratched her gray neck for a moment.

After his heart rate had quieted, Miles went after their chief farrier.

"Huger," Miles called out, not spotting him.

"Yes, sir," Huger responded, leaning out from behind a horse whose hoof he was examining. Huger refused to enlist, but he was one of the only civilians around that Miles liked.

"A word with you."

"Sir," Huger limped over. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and though he was only fifty-five, he wore his miles like an ancient.

"Do you have broader smithing skills, or are horseshoes it for you?" Miles asked him.

"I was actually a blacksmith before I became a farrier. But there was no money in it…back then anyway. So I learned this trade." Huger was from backwoods Kentucky, and when he said 'there' it sounded more like 'theer.'

Miles lifted his left arm out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, the chilly air biting his skin. "See this?" he asked Huger.

The farrier glanced at the arm and nodded, his bottom lip stuck out in thought.

"Think you can make a brand of the design?"

"Yes, sir. Easy."

"How long?"

"Maybe a couple of hours?"

"Perfect. Make a few."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

1300 brought little change to the impenetrable, white winter sky, yet on the ground, it inaugurated a solemn ceremony. The Monroe Militia was gathered on three sides of a square formation, flying no colors, surrounding a single stake. The five pale-faced deserters who had yet to be tried were assembled under guard at the front of the line; one had his eyes closed, his lips moving. Miles and Bass were on horseback waiting for the convicted Martinez to march out. Bass hadn't said anything to Miles about the execution, and Miles couldn't tell what his friend was thinking. But they both sat up very straight in their saddles, somberly surveying the crowd. Miles gave the order to usher out the prisoner.

Martinez's armed guard marched him right by the general and president. The private looked small and withered and suddenly halted in front of Miles and Bass, startling the troops of his guard. They immediately pointed their muskets at him in warning.

"Sirs…permission to speak," Martinez said in a shaky voice.

Bass was surprised enough by the request that he cocked his head at Miles questioningly. Miles stared impassively down at the man. "Permission denied." _You had your court martial_ , Miles thought. _Don't make this harder than it is._

Martinez looked stricken but marched on with his guard. When he reached the stake, the officer of the day read the prisoner's offenses and his sentence in a steady, confident voice. Then the regimental chaplain came out and knelt with the prisoner, making the sign of the cross on him. Miles couldn't hear the prayer, but he did steal a glance at Bass, who kept pushing his lips together. The gesture made Miles nervous, so he stopped looking. Finally, the soldiers of the guard fastened Martinez to the stake and blindfolded him. Miles nodded at the officer of the day to ready the firing squad.

Out filed six soldiers armed with six guns (five blanks, one mystery bullet). They stopped ten paces from the prisoner. There was dead silence, as if the crowd was holding its collective breath. The officer of the day ordered, "Ready!" and the clicking of the locks pierced the silence. "Aim!" The men pointed the muzzles directly at Martinez's breast. And just as the officer barked, "Fire!" Martinez cried, "Oh God!" and he was dead. His body crumpled against the stake.

Miles waited for the firing squad to march away and then rode out in front of the troops. He hadn't planned to speak, but the collective trauma he witnessed on the troops' faces compelled him forward. Miles was glad that Zeppelin was with him, because he felt dreadfully alone. He sensed the troops were frightened of him.

Miles cleared his throat. "When the lights went out, you all got to experience what ultimate freedom feels like. It feels like terror and panic. So, you chose to give up some of that freedom when you enlisted in this Militia to bring back order and to protect the people you care about: to secure their lives, liberties...their happiness."

Bass was impressed: so Miles had read the Declaration of Independence. Bass had left it on his desk as a kind of joke. He was also impressed, because Miles could make a speech. _Really_ make a speech. Bass and everyone present were riveted.

"You made a sacrifice to help establish the Monroe Republic. And make no mistake, _this_ is the Republic's moment of need, of peril. If we don't immediately pacify the west, the Republic will fall and chaos will return." Miles paused. "I know that justice can be hard to watch, but when it is executed swiftly and fairly it should bring you comfort. Now you know the limits. Without limits and rules, there can be no mercy. A world without mercy is a terrible place. We've all seen it. I'll be damned if the citizens of this country will have to live another minute in that world."

Zeppelin shifted under Miles's thighs. Miles looked down for a moment at her chestnut mane and then back at his soldiers. "I'm proud of what I've seen in this army. You've trained well; you've got fighting spirit. And in a few days, we'll march out together and put your training to the test. Will it be cold and miserable? Exhausting? Dangerous? Yes. But your moment is coming: to pass from green recruit to soldier. The feeling is impossible to describe, but there is nothing like it." Miles stared off wistfully before finishing. "So we'll move on from this day together, and prepare ourselves for the test ahead."

Miles signaled to begin marching the troops by the body and rode back toward and past Bass.

"Miles!" Bass called.

Miles grunted that he was listening, as Gunsmoke trotted to catch up.

"Jeremy said something to me earlier…I'm not exactly sure what he meant. He said you were having brands made? For the troops?" Zeppelin and Gunsmoke were now walking side by side.

"That's correct."

"I don't understand. You'll brand them like cattle?" Bass asked, his voice half critical, half confused.

"Not like cattle. They need to believe they're part of something – part of us. What do these tattoos mean?" Miles asked Bass sharply, briefly lifting his lower sleeve in emphasis.

"That…we're brothers? Even if not by blood, by life. Brothers." Bass wrinkled his forehead.

"That's right. And now we're brothers with all of them. That's what I told the regimental officers to say when they give the troops their marks. We may be of all different ranks and responsibilities, but we're in it together. We're family."

Bass once again felt awed by this new side of Miles that he was witnessing. He'd seen Miles lead men before, certainly, and he knew Miles was good at it. But this…this was on a different scale. Bass felt something - a pang of guilt or envy - that he was not holding up his end of this partnership quite as magnificently. Bass was glad he was going to ride out with Miles on the western campaign. It would provide a chance to prove that he, too, could lead.

Miles broke away, noticing the officer of the day nearby. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir!" The man barked, saluting, which Miles promptly returned. The man had light, compelling eyes that stood out from his dark skin.

"Your name is Neville, correct?" Miles asked him.

"Yes, sir, 1st Lt. Thomas Neville."

"Well, I'm promoting you to captain. You showed good leadership today under trying circumstances. Come by my office at 1900, and we'll make it official." Miles had been watching Neville for a number of weeks. He had brought Tom in as an officer, because he had shown promise from day one. Since then, Tom had proven that he understood the necessity of discipline and leading from the front.

Neville looked surprised and pleased. "Thank you, sir!"

They exchanged another salute before Miles rode back to the main house with Bass. They handed off the horses, and Miles parted from his best friend without another word. Miles climbed the stairs to his room and opened the drawer of his nightstand, which contained the small number of personal effects he'd brought with him on his journey from South Carolina. One was a photograph of him flanked by Rachel and Ben at their wedding. He stared for a long moment at the picture unsure of why he so urgently needed to see it. He ran a thumb over Rachel's face and then put it back. He tried hard not to think it, but the words had already formed in his mind: _What would she think of you now?_


	10. Chapter 10

**The Past**

"Miles," Bass's familiar but far off sounding voice said through the phone.

Miles found that he actually had to take a deep breath before he could muster, "Hey." Even then his voice sounded shakier than he cared to admit. There was something about talking to this person who knew him better than anyone on earth that made Miles afraid he'd just come apart. So he waited for Bass to say something.

Bass, for his part, always found it difficult to speak to Miles on the phone under the best of circumstances. Miles was not the world's chattiest person. This particular circumstance - in which Bass was still in Afghanistan and Miles was home in Chicago - was achingly weird. And that was before you even considered the shit Miles was dealing with.

"How ya feeling, buddy?" Bass asked caringly.

"Um…ok. I'm fine – all healed up," Miles said. And it was true that he bore no physical marks from his internment except the weight loss and atrophied muscles. When Miles stopped to reflect on it, it was actually quite miraculous. He'd felt like pulp rather than human when Bass and the LT had scraped him off the floor of his cell.

Suddenly, it was happening – Miles was being transported back to the prison, feeling the dirt of the floor grinding into his cheeks and smelling his own feces. The hand holding the phone shook. He almost dropped it.

The prolonged silence was making Bass nervous, so he tried to be playful. "You getting any tail in Chicago?"

Miles stared out the kitchen window at the frosty morning. "Um…" his voice cracked. He was still terrified by what had happened to him last night in Sheila's apartment. "I went out but…I dunno, things just aren't…" he didn't know what he was trying to tell Bass. It was just a feeling he'd had. A feeling like he'd never be able to physically experience sexual attraction again. He knew it was crazy, but the thought was controlling him.

Somehow Bass knew. "Hey, man. This kind of stuff happens sometimes when you come back from a tour. Give it time, and you'll be right again."

"Are things in Afghanistan…?" Miles didn't know why his words were coming out all jumbled up, like he didn't know how to form coherent sentences. But again Bass seemed to understand what he was trying to say, and Miles was so grateful to his best friend that it actually hurt his chest.

"We're all safe here. We're basically laying low at base. Have a patrol coming up, but it's no big deal…"

"Let me know how it goes."

"We'll be fine, but I'll let you know. Look I'd better - "

Miles knew that Bass was signaling the end of this conversation, but he suddenly feared that when Bass's voice stopped coming through the phone, he'd crumble. Miles was frustrated by his own fickleness: one moment talking to Bass was upsetting and the next letting him go was torture. Miles said quickly to preserve the connection: "Thank you, Bass."

"What, man? I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. Spotty connection."

"Thank you."

"Oh. For what?"

"For saving my sorry ass."

"Miles," and now Bass's voice was wavering with emotion. "Any time, brother. Any time."

"Be safe."

"Ok," Bass said, followed by a click of finality.

A small sound escaped from Miles that verged on a whimper. He suddenly felt a minute hand grab onto his pants leg and looked down to see Charlie. Miles's eyes felt unnaturally wet as he gazed down at the child's startlingly blue eyes.

"Sad Miles," Charlie announced, hugging his leg tight as a teddy bear.

Miles let his hand fall on her head. _Yes_ , he thought. _I am sad. I am really fucking sad._ He covered his face with his other hand, and that's how Rachel found her brother-in-law and his niece, so tiny against his long leg, when she entered the kitchen. It broke her heart.

Rachel put her hand on Miles's shoulder, and he jumped a little. Miles looked at her hand like it was a foreign object until she removed it. She saw something frightening in his eyes – some emotion she couldn't identify. Miles walked out of the room, audibly tussling with the coat rack, and she heard the front door close.

* * *

The temperature kept falling all day until it was nearly ten below with the wind chill. Miles still wasn't home six hours later, and Rachel gave in to full panic. She hadn't gone into work to distract herself; she sat home stewing about Miles all day. Could it be that what she'd seen in Miles's eyes was him quitting?

She finally called Ben, and as soon as she heard his familiar, "Hello?" she began crying.

"Rachel, what it is?" Ben asked with concern. "I'm sorry, let me just slip out of this meeting. Ok, talk to me. What's going on? Is it Danny? Miles?"

Rachel swallowed and stabilized her voice. "I haven't seen Miles in hours, and I'm afraid…"

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid he'll hurt himself."

"Do you want to call the police?" Ben asked in alarm.

"No…not yet. I might be overreacting. I just want to find him, but the kids…"

"Ok, listen. Take the kids to Jeanie next door – she loves to watch them. And then…let's see. Where would Miles go? I wish we could talk to Bass," Ben said in frustration. Rachel could hear him drumming his fingers. "Maybe check some of the bars? Or…sometimes when we were kids and hanging out in the city, Mom would take us to look at the river. She loved the water – so does Miles. It calms them. That's all I can think of for now. But call me if you don't find him. Or call me the second you do."

"Ok. I'd better go."

"I love you," Ben said.

Rachel actually had a hard time replying, "I love you, too." If she was honest with herself, she was angry that Ben had gone to Stanford, leaving her with their sickly baby, Danny, who had acute asthma. And how could he justify leaving Miles? They had almost lost him – it was astounding that he was still alive. She was frankly a little afraid of being left alone with this intimidatingly broken Miles…or perhaps, a little afraid of her feelings for him.

There was a part of marriage that no one had warned her about: that you didn't stop being attracted to other people just because you made a life commitment. You just chose not to think about it and certainly not to act on it. Unfortunately, she had always been intrigued by Ben's little brother. He was handsome, and his life as a Marine was dangerous and mysterious to her. Miles and Ben were different in almost every way possible. Where Ben was all warm communicator, Miles was distant and pensive. Where Ben was intellectual, Miles was all action. And here was the rub: Ben was a lovely, caring partner and her best friend in the world, but he had never excited her, especially not in the bedroom. Rachel was often strangled by her own throbbing passion, which she struggled to push down so that she wouldn't feel constantly disappointed.

This past year had put Rachel's and Ben's marriage under tremendous strain. The pregnancy with Danny had been hellacious and expensive, and they had already spent most of their meager savings on the startup company to build a device they didn't even entirely understand. Ben had brought on the Department of Defense to curtail their financial tailspin without asking her first, and the wonderful friendship at the center of her marriage had cracked. To top it off, Rachel was in the throws of extended postpartum depression. She'd had it with Charlie, and she had it now with Danny – and Ben didn't even ask about it. Perhaps he didn't want to deal with her emotional fragility all over again. So, she thought, he just ran away.

With all of this heavy on her mind, Rachel dropped the kids off with Jeanie, and got into her old, rusty Honda to roam the streets looking for Miles. It was terrible out, and even gloved, Rachel's fingers felt like unthawed link sausages from the freezer. She hoped to God Miles wasn't outside. Just in case, she decided to start looking along the river, where Ben had suggested. To her relief but also instant concern, there he was, a dark black smear against the crusty, gray river. She turned off the car and ran over.

"Miles," Rachel said. "I've been looking for you. You have to come home. It's freezing."

Miles tore his eyes away from the chunks of ice on the water to look at her, unblinking.

Rachel was positively desperate to get Miles into the car. She felt like her veins were filling with ice water just being out in the cold for a minute. "Miles. Talk to me. You've got to talk to someone about what happened. You don't have to bear it alone."

Miles lips shuddered. "Bass…" was all he could get out.

"Bass isn't here, honey. I know you miss him. You got to talk to him today. Did that help?" She didn't know why she even asking. It was obvious that talking to Bass had contributed to his current fragile state.

She saw Miles shiver violently against the cold.

Finally he spoke: "I…how can I tell you when I can't…Words don't…they don't help to make sense of this."

Rachel took it as a good sign that Miles could admit to having feelings that he couldn't properly process. So she decided to push…a little. Maybe he just needed the opportunity to think aloud. "Try," she urged.

"I don't know, Rachel. Sick, perverse things happened in that prison. Things calculated to make me crazy. People think saying them aloud will help them go away. But it just makes them real. It makes them real!" Miles shouted the last bit very loudly. So loudly a bundled woman walking by visibly jumped in her tracks and then hurried on.

Rachel decided that even saying this very little was a kind of breakthrough for Miles. She gathered him into her arms and pressed him tightly to her body. Miles shook and shook. When she looked at him again, she could see that he'd bitten his own lip; a tiny smear of red bloomed against his blue lips. The sight alarmed her.

"Miles, we've got to get out of the cold. Come into the car, and we'll turn on the heat," Rachel said. God, he might even be hypothermic at this point. She wondered if she should take him to the hospital. She got him into the car and drove around aimlessly to get the heat blasting.

She found herself muttering platitudes, mostly to make sure that Miles was still with her. "Listen, Miles, I know Ben and I haven't always been supportive of your decision to join the Marines, but it takes one hell of a strong person to even make it through the training, let alone three tours. This one ended especially badly. But you are going to survive it. You must!"

Rachel's breasts began leaking milk through her sweater. She needed to pump and had to get home soon. She looked sideways at Miles to ascertain if he needed medical attention. She saw that he was looking at her breasts and felt instant shame, trying to reclose the folds of her coat.

She decided that Miles's color did look a little better, so she continued talking and made a left turn toward home. "We need you to survive this, Miles."

"Why?" Miles choked.

"You're our family." She gripped Miles' hand, which felt dead in his glove. "We…I love you." She felt her cheeks burn, because it came out like an admission of her own confused feelings for Miles.

Rachel decided not to pick up the kids right away. Jeanie, the perpetual bachelorette, had practically begged to keep them for dinner anyway. Besides the fact that Rachel really needed to relieve her aching breasts, she thought it best to settle Miles before unleashing the chaos of the youngsters.

Miles stood in the doorway, trying to undo the buttons of his coat, but his fingers were shaking too badly. Finally he made a grunt of defeated frustration that Rachel took as a signal to intervene. Like a child, she led Miles to the bathroom and drew him a warm bath, helping him to undress - tenderly, carefully. She helped him into the tub and then sat on the cold tiles of the floor, leaning against the toilet. His naked body transfixed her, and even though it was rude to stare, she lapsed into scientific observation.

"Your body," she said aloud, willing Miles to tell her the stories of his scars, his tattoos – the many mysteries imbedded in his skin.

"Hm?" Miles asked, still shivering in the warm water.

"Looks like it's been through a meat grinder." Again she failed to consider that she was being impolite.

Miles steadily met her eyes and then sank further down into the water. She didn't know if this meant that he felt self-conscious or resigned. Presently, she grew aware that she had been staring at her brother-in-law in the bathtub for the better part of five minutes.

"I've got to go pump," she blurted and exited the bathroom.

As Rachel was putting the bottles of milk into the fridge thirty minutes later, she heard the door of the bathroom open. Miles emerged with a towel around his waist. Seeing him there - the grief on his face, his beautiful, battered body - a terrible sense of inevitability gripped her. She crossed the room against her good judgment and stood before him.

Miles loomed in the hallway staring at Rachel, wondering what the hell was happening between them. Then she crossed the room and stood so close to him, and there was so little fabric between him and her…that all the things that hadn't happened last night with Sheila were suddenly, embarrassingly happening to his body. Miles wanted Rachel so badly and had so little will to stop himself that he reached out and smoothed a strand of golden hair from her face. And that was the moment of betrayal to Ben: so innocent a gesture but one that should never occur between a man and his brother's wife. Miles allowed his hand to rest on Rachel's cheek, and then they were kissing. Ravenously.

Miles had never experienced this all-consuming, overwhelming passion with anyone. He practically slammed Rachel into the wall and in doing so dropped his towel. Again, they could have stopped themselves, but there was Miles - stark naked and hard as a teenager - and they just couldn't. His hands were down her pants, and then her pants were no more, and then they fucked right there on the floor.

Rachel's mind had completely short-circuited with desire. Her body was burning. Everywhere Miles touched her, she felt like screaming in passion. She had never felt anything like this – nothing even remotely close. And when they were lying in a heap on the scratchy carpet of the hallway afterward - panting, aching – she couldn't believe the control she'd lost. Not only had she just cheated on her husband _with her husband's little brother_ , but they hadn't even used protection, and she had never had unplanned, unprotected sex in her life. Thank God she hadn't yet gotten her period again after Danny's birth, but she'd better get a pregnancy test from the Rite Aid just to be sure. How could this have happened? This was almost completely her fault. She had undressed Miles and bathed him, for God's sake…what did she think was going to happen? Part of her was simply amazed that he had wanted her too. But she should have known that from the minute she caught him looking at her breasts in the car. No, she should have known that from the minute she had seen the terror on his face when he had refused to hug her that first night home.

The worst part was that she already wanted him again. She had never wanted anything so badly in her life. She forced herself to get up off the floor and stumble back into her clothes.

"I've got to pick up the kids!" she cried desperately, propelling herself out the front door. But she didn't go to Jeanie's right away. She slumped down on the front stairs completely stricken. She couldn't even cry – she didn't deserve to. She had violated her contract with Ben. There was no feeling sorry for herself; there was no forgiveness for people like her. Now she was going to have to face her children, her underwear still wet from Miles. She felt sick.

After Rachel had careened out the front door, Miles rose to his knees in the hallway, wiping himself off with his towel. He was filled with wretched terror at what he'd just done. It was his fault. He'd started it. For a moment, he almost feared he had forced Rachel, since he'd had so little control over himself, but no…she had been just as rapacious with his body as he had been with hers.

Ben had taken in Miles when he was lost, and this was Miles's repayment. Fucking his brother's wife in the hallway of their house. Miles went upstairs and got into Charlie's bed, pulling up the sheets over his face. He wished he could call his best friend and ask him for advice, but it was impossible. Besides, Miles could never utter this out loud. Admitting it would make it true.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Present: The western campaign**

Miles and Bass were riding Zeppelin and Gunsmoke side by side. The only sounds in the forest were the snapping of twigs and the symbiotic thudding of hooves and a hundred soldiers' boots on the frozen earth. It was as if time were fluidly sampling the past and the present to construct an absurd but satisfying symphony of man's wartime achievements, from the days of cavalry to the days of automatic rifles. Indeed, the Militia was currently armed with a hodgepodge of modern-day firearms and period weapons. Miles was very concerned about the limited supplies of ammunition in the main arsenal, and Philadelphia museums had yielded a curious array of rifled Springfields, smoothbore muskets, and even flintlocks, for which Militia blacksmiths could actually produce new lead bullets. Of course, collecting the civilians' arms would give Miles an additional edge on the ammo shortage – that is, if the residents didn't force the militia to expend its precious stores on this campaign. Miles hoped to God they didn't resist.

The weather couldn't have been better for late January – dry and in the twenties at night, still not a flake of snow. As Miles gazed down at his men, trudging along in formation, he was grateful for this small gift from Mother Nature. He wanted the troops (each newly emblazoned with an 'M') to have a good first major campaign to build morale and trust. He noticed that occasionally a soldier would rub his arm where the burnt flesh was still stinging and felt a pang of gratefulness that his soldiers had been willing to demonstrate profound allegiance to…well to his authority, if he was honest.

The columns moved all day, and as the winter sun waned with its usual winter rapidity, Miles gave the order to set up camp.

Miles and Bass then walked the rows of tents - Miles inspecting for variations in discipline; Bass greeting the soldiers by the names he read on their uniforms and filing the information away. Miles tersely deployed orders: "Wash your face and your hands. Change your socks and your underwear," while Bass smiled. He knew Miles had difficulty remembering even faces and that it was his own job to serve as a kind of institutional memory for the both of them. Bass sometimes joked that Miles's 'facial recognition software' was faulty, but Bass knew that Miles simply didn't scrutinize peoples' faces in the same way he did, occasionally critically misjudging them. Miles appeared to counter this lack of social proficiency by approaching most people with suspicion and mistrust until they proved themselves absolutely loyal.

After about the ninth time that Miles ordered a soldier to wash up, Miles noticed Bass's crooked smile.

"What?" Miles asked his friend impatiently, before turning once more to a young corporal to bark, "You there: make sure those tents have more distance between them," indicating the offending tents with his index and middle fingers.

"Thank you, Cpl. Jespersen," Bass added, earning himself a look from Miles. Once Jespersen had scrambled off to fulfill the order, Bass mused at Miles: "A general giving sergeant's orders."

With a surge of irritation, Miles responded, "Well, they have to learn." Bass's comment bit him, because reality was this: he was a _sergeant_ giving _general's_ orders.

Bass smiled, "I know, man. The officers have to learn." He noted the flicker of self-doubt that had migrated across Miles's face. Bass changed the subject, "Oh, been meaning to tell you: we got the new postal service up and running using a combination of horses and boats. It's a regular pony express operation! I'm particularly pleased it fell into place before this mission."

Miles's face suggested that he did not follow.

Bass continued patiently, "Because we can offer real infrastructures to the hostile civilians – woo them into the fold. Come on, Miles. You know this could turn very ugly, if we don't approach it diplomatically."

"Well, that's why I brought you, President." Miles mumbled. He shuddered half from the cold and half from more self-doubt. He _was_ grateful for Bass being here. Miles was afraid that when presented with pushback from citizens, he only had one game plan: force them to comply. He had little sense of how to verbally entice them into the Monroe Republic. He wasn't entirely convinced that life in the Monroe Republic was superior to what the westerners had carved out of the black.

Bass said, "Look Miles. This is a good thing we're doing – giving people protection, civility, structures that will keep them healthy, rebuilding communication and transportation. They'll appreciate it once they realize what we offer." Bass put a hand on Miles's shoulder reassuringly and then noticed that Miles had gotten very still. "Uh oh, you're think-"

"Shh," Miles instructed.

Before Bass could listen for what Miles had heard, they were bombarded by gunfire.

Militia troops were screaming as they went down, some from wounds and others from panic. The shots seemed to be coming from every direction – they were encircled and ambushed. But as Miles's eyes flew wildly about taking in the scene, he soon discovered that the Militia were the far more numerous and that the attackers only had the element of surprise in their favor. There couldn't be more than thirty, thirty-five men out there. Once Miles got his troops to stop lying in the dirt and covering their heads, he was able to quickly repulse the enemy.

Several minutes later, the Militia had taken nine hostages and killed five. The rest had fled the scene. Miles surveyed the casualties in his own forces: seven wounded and three dead. One missing – "Find him, and if he's not been taken prisoner, shoot him on sight. This militia doesn't tolerate cowards," Miles ordered a couple of soldiers. Miles evacuated his wounded back toward Philly and strode over to where the prisoners were being guarded. Bass followed, his head spinning from the action.

Miles surveyed the prisoners silently for a moment. They had on vaguely matching gray jackets and pants, which in combination with the clearly coordinated attack was a bad sign.

"Who are you?" Miles asked a bearded man curtly.

"John- "

"No. Who are you?" Miles repeated, making a sweeping gesture at the prisoners.

John smiled. "Got a cigarette?" he asked Miles with a crackly voice.

"Answer the question." Miles growled, irked by his audacity. The prisoner wasn't afraid – another very bad thing.

"We know about you – the Monroe Militia," John said in a mildly derisive tone. "You're not the only militia around. Call ourselves the Pittsburgh Army."

"How many are in your _army_?" Miles pressed, scorn hanging on the last word.

John shrugged. "I think I'm going to decline to tell you," he said. And then reading Miles's rank off the stars on his uniform, John added with exceeding contempt: " _general_."

Miles pointed his pistol at John's heart and shot him dead. Bass jumped from surprise, as did the prisoners and the militia guards.

Without flinching, Miles walked straight up to the next prisoner, whose face had gone deathly pale. "How many?" the general repeated.

The man's lips were quivering, and it looked like he was trying to speak, but no words surfaced. Miles surveyed him steadily for a moment. "Want a cigarette?" Miles offered at last.

The man looked at Miles like he was crazy. But sure enough, Miles took out two hand-rolled cigarettes – one for him and one for the man. He lit them both at once with a match and took a long draw. Bass knew that Miles didn't smoke much – cigars when he could get them – but cigarettes only when they were drunk, or Miles was supremely stressed. But this was different. This was just proving a point. Bass was enthralled.

The man put the cigarette to his shaky lips and finally answered, "We have – well had – maybe 150 total. We're the biggest army in this area. Well…except you, I suppose."

"You suppose correctly," Miles said. "I'm going to assume from the creative title that you're based out of Pittsburgh?"

The man nodded.

Miles gazed at him for another moment and turned on his heel. He said in a low voice to the sergeant overseeing the prisoners:

"Shoot them all."

Bass's eyes widened, and he pulled Miles aside. He didn't want to challenge Miles's authority in front of the men, but this was extreme. Couldn't they use the prisoners to extract more information on the other militias' whereabouts?

"Miles. We can keep them with us under guard. They might be useful for intelligence."

Miles practically interrupted him: "If they're in Pittsburgh, we'll find 'em."

Bass stared into his friend's flashing, black eyes. "Ok, fine. But what if we need to negotiate with the militias, say, if any of our men get taken prisoner?"

"And be pulled into a prisoner exchange cartel? That would be tantamount to recognizing the legitimacy of the other militias, don't you think, President? These men are terrorists, and they should be treated as such." Miles put his hands on his hips and waited for Bass to come round.

Bass continued gazing at his friend, searching himself for further objections, but found he was mainly impressed with Miles's logic. In fact, Bass wished he'd thought of it himself.

The sergeant spoke up to confirm orders. "Sirs?" Frankly, it wasn't entirely clear to the soldiers who was in charge, as they'd never operated under both Matheson and Monroe at once. Was the Monroe Republic like the United States in that the president was also commander-in-chief? Or was the general-in-chief where the buck stopped for all military decisions?

Bass glanced at Miles's set face one more time. Miles nodded at Bass, and the question was answered. General Matheson would defer to President Monroe after all. The troops took note. Bass promptly ordered the sergeant, his voice colder now: "Shoot them."

* * *

The next day, Miles's brain was disturbingly fuzzy, as he swayed in his mount. He hadn't slept at all last night, his mind going over again and again his decision to execute the prisoners. Every time he replayed the moment, he came up believing he'd done the smart thing. But smart didn't necessarily feel right. But what was _right_? Miles had never been religious, like his Catholic mother. He'd seen enough gray in his time as a Marine to know that black and white were colors that didn't exist in war. He was blessed and cursed of an extremely decisive personality and rarely expended too much energy on regret. Well…except when it came to his brother, but that was another topic entirely. And what happened yesterday, well, Miles hadn't made that decision alone. He'd made it with Bass, or Bass had made it for him – frankly, he wasn't entirely sure.

In any case, they'd had a much better morning than last night. Bass had convinced four different settlements to turn over their arms on the way to Pittsburgh, despite the citizens' fears that this would hinder their ability to hunt for food in the long winter. Bass promised that that the Republic would subsidize the rebuilding of marketplaces in their vicinity, which would not only improve their odds of getting a meal but also expand the variety of food to which they had access. Doc Arora, who was accompanying the militia, commented that some of the civilians were manifesting symptoms of scurvy, which meant they had been critically deprived of vitamin C for at least three months. In short, they desperately needed access to fruits and vegetables. All in all, Bass was proving to be very persuasive amongst the populace, and Miles was happy to take a back seat to him for a few hours.

Yet the calm didn't last long. By mid-afternoon, the Monroe Militia found itself facing down another ambush. In this scuffle – another Matheson victory – Bass actually had his horse shot out from under him, sending a surge of panic through Miles's chest, as he watched his friend thud to the ground and roll out just in time to avoid being crushed under the panicked beast. Miles himself had to finish off Smoke, which broke his heart. "So sorry, girl," Miles whispered to her, as he put her out of her misery. Despite Bass's initial opposition to horse riding, he had walked into the trees to stand alone after the battle, and when Miles saw him again, he could tell that Bass's eyes were red. Miles couldn't blame him: he believed that next to Bass, he'd be most devastated to lose his own mare. It was amazing how much he'd grown to rely on Zeppelin as a source of emotional stability. He almost wondered how he'd gotten through previous wars without an equine companion.

Bass was now limping slightly from his fall but insisted that he was fine. Arora took a look at the ankle and proclaimed it a minor sprain, but still, Miles didn't like it. He tried to convince Bass to go home, even after one of the other officers had given up his horse to the president.

"Miles. Enough," Bass said, silencing him. "I'm finishing the campaign."

Miles believed the new assault had been issued by a different set of what he'd publicly dubbed "terrorists." More and more he feared they hadn't even scratched the surface of the paramilitary organizations out here in the western reaches of what was once Pennsylvania. To top off the growing misery of surviving two battles in twenty-four hours, ice rain began pelting the weary troops.

That night, Miles was in Bass's tent, watching him elevate his swollen ankle, passing back and forth a bottle of whiskey. They listened intently to the jingly music of the sleet outside.

Miles finally spoke: "Before we left, you mentioned Chicago. I think we'll be lucky to breech Ohio at this rate. There are lots of hostiles out there. I say we clean the rebels out of Pittsburgh and go home."

Bass nodded. "This would be a lot easier if we could move faster than on foot."

"The rivers? Could work on constructing a navy- "

Bass interrupted, "That'll take a while, but yes. More and more I think we've been going about this the wrong way. We shouldn't be coaxing people into the Monroe Republic, we should just assume that _everyone_ is in the Monroe Republic – or they face consequences. We've now had a string of military successes. If we earn the reputation that we can't be beat, then expansion will naturally follow."

"Expansion…" Miles pondered the word awhile. "Where does it stop?"

Bass shrugged. "When we face resistance we can't overcome?"

"But…" Miles had no idea what he even wanted to ask, so he finally tried, "Why?" and hoped that Bass would understand him. Bass usually did.

And he did: "Because the devil you know is better than the devil you don't? You've seen how many other militias we've come across. There must be hundreds, thousands, out there roaming the former United States."

"What if…" and here Miles's face fell deadly serious, "What if the devil we don't know is actually us?"

Bass shifted uncomfortably and repositioned his sore ankle. "Come on, man. You don't believe that."


	12. Chapter 12

**The Past**

Miles managed to avoid Rachel until around dinnertime the next day – or maybe she avoided him. In any case, he didn't leave Charlie's room until evening, when he emerged to shower, preparing to go to a local bar to complete the evasion. He was currently in the kitchen, sipping a glass of water, when he heard the front door. This was instantly followed by the thud, thud, thud of Charlie bounding into the living room, Rachel calling her back to remove her snow boots, and the baby wailing (as usual). Miles was a cornered rabbit. There was no way to slip upstairs without engaging with the lot of them.

Charlie was already in the kitchen, pulling on the leg of Miles's pants, showing him a painting she had done of a cylindrical gray blob punctuated by red streams. "It's a flamethrower!" she asserted. Miles's brain did not compute.

"What?" he asked her, bending low to the ground.

"Flamethrower! You know, soldiers like you use it to shoot fire at bad guys!" Charlie nodded triumphantly.

"Um…" Miles said hopelessly.

Rachel was in the kitchen with Danny on her hip. The baby had tears pouring from every orifice, giving his face the appearance of a wet mop. Rachel looked worn and eyed Miles with something bordering on contempt…or so he feared. Miles backed up against the cabinets.

"Miles, can you hold Danny for a minute?" Rachel asked, moving toward him with the suddenness of a predator. Miles retreated further, his mouth slightly agape. "Just for a minute!" she pleaded impatiently.

"Sure. Sorry," Miles mumbled, awkwardly receiving the small but unwieldy figure. Miles held Danny briefly under the arms like a pinned specimen, which actually surprised Danny into ceasing his hysterics. Rachel cocked her head at Miles, as if to say, 'You're going to have to do better than that,' and finally Miles shifted Danny into the universal reclining infant position. Of course, Danny was far too old for that nonsense and resumed bawling melancholically. Miles was miserable. This is what sex with a mother got you: instant baby duty. He was terrible at this – didn't she see that?

But Rachel had left the room, displaying little sympathy for his discomfort. Charlie sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island, swinging her dangling legs back and forth, singing "Bingo" at breakneck speed while doodling on a receipt – probably depicting more flamethrowers. The high-pitched chatter and the shrieking of the baby made Miles's head spin.

Mercifully, Rachel was true to her word and returned a moment later. She said to Charlie, "Sweetheart, I'm going to put you in the other room with your brother. I need to talk to your uncle. Give us a few minutes, ok?"

Charlie readily complied, and Rachel swept off to arrange the baby with his big sister. Meanwhile, Miles's throat stopped performing the swallow function. Then the breathing apparatus failed. The more he stood there trying to remember how to breathe and swallow, the less he felt capable of accomplishing these fairly basic human feats. By the time Rachel had reappeared and was squinting at him, Miles was mildly panicked for his own survival.

"What do you think happened last night?" Rachel's voice cut through his mounting anxiety.

He focused on her question. It made no sense to him. "Um…sex?" he choked out. Maybe she didn't believe it was real either.

"A mistake! The biggest mistake either of us has ever made," she snapped.

Miles wondered if that were true: the biggest mistake he'd ever made. Sliding into that stupid ditch to save Buster? Well, then Buster would have been taken. Killing civilians in Iraq? But Miles had been following orders…it had all been a terrible accident. Was sex really the worst thing he'd ever done? He was far too overwhelmed to respond.

Rachel had buried her face in her hands. When she looked back up, her features softened somewhat. "Miles, I'm sorry. I know you're hurting right now. But I have to ask you to leave. I can't have you staying here. Do you have somewhere else you can go?" she looked at him earnestly.

Miles's throat paralysis returned. Of course he had nowhere to go. Nobody in this world cared about him except for Bass and Ben. And given what Miles had done, he was pretty sure that list had been narrowed down to one lone Marine in Afghanistan, who wasn't due home for another two months. Miles opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"I want you to leave now," Rachel emphasized unnecessarily.

"Ok. I'm going," Miles managed.

Thirty minutes later, Miles had taken a pause from packing his meager belongings to sit on the bed and stare when he heard the phone ring. And there was Rachel darkening his doorway.

"I'm going! I just stopped to rest," he assured her quickly, running his hand over his scalp.

"You're not going." Rachel's voice was devoid of emotion. "Ben's coming home Friday to see you for the weekend."

Miles's bottomless brown eyes drifted slowly up to lock with Rachel's resolute blue.

"I mean…what are we going to tell him if you're not here?" she sighed. "You have to stay."

* * *

It was midnight, and Miles had just barely surrendered to shallow sleep. The heat in the Matheson residence was always cranked up far too high for Miles's taste, and in order to sleep he gradually edged out of the sheets, entangling himself like a caught fish. He turned restlessly back toward the door and was instantly startled awake.

"Shh," Rachel's voice warned. She moved to the edge of his bed.

Miles surveyed her groggily. He was clad only in boxers. It seemed like a bad idea for her to be in here. He was caught between that space of slumber and wakefulness, where dreams feel hyper real and reality blurs menacingly into subconscious desires and fears.

"I can't sleep. I just lie there thinking about how much I want you," Rachel's voice trembled. "Knowing that you're here in the other room."

Miles was so tired and resigned that he pulled Rachel's forehead against his with both hands to stop her from talking. They stayed that way for a spell, touching the smallest, most neglected inch of skin to skin. Even so, the passion built, and Miles knew that unless she pulled away and walked out the door, it was going to happen again.

The better part of an hour later, Rachel lay atop Miles. Miles was playing with a strand of her long, blonde hair in such a way that tugged pleasantly on her scalp. She so desperately wanted to drift off into sleep but kept reminding herself that the consequences of that could be Charlie discovering her mother in bed with her uncle. Rachel buried her face in Miles's neck, breathing him in and willing herself to remain conscious. A nagging voice in her head kept saying, "So this is what it's supposed to be like."

It felt so good to Miles to be weighed down by something other than his problems. Rachel felt like how he imaged those weird hot rock treatments would be. Prepubescent Miles and Bass had giggled over such an image in a lady's magazine, as they tried to make out the curve of the woman's breasts pressed beneath her bare back.

Presently Miles became aware of the contents of the condom leaking out. He wished he could take it off, but didn't want to move Rachel. The presence of the condom reminded him that this time had been no accident. And so a mistake became an affair. He slid his hand down her back until it rested on her bum. He was even starting to feel a little possessive of her.

"Am I crushing you?" Rachel asked into his neck. Then she pulled up to look at his face.

He gazed at her seriously, his eyes punctuated by his dark eyebrows even in the moonlight. "No," he said. "You can lay on me all night."

"Mmm," Rachel made a sound in between a whine and a sob and buried her face back in his neck.

"What?" Miles asked in concern.

"It's just…it's ridiculous, but every time we're done, I want you again immediately – even more than the last time. How is that possible?"

Miles remained silent.

"Miles…if I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?" Rachel suddenly asked. Then she exhaled in a sound that Miles took for laughter.

He looked down at her with his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sorry," she almost snorted. "It's just that you keep _everything_ to yourself."

Miles gently pushed her off, so that he could dispose of the irksome condom. He leaned on his elbow waiting.

Rachel's face went serious. "I'm concerned about something Ben and I have gotten mixed up in. It has to do with the Department of Defense. You're in the military…maybe you'd have some insight?" she asked hopefully.

Miles cocked his head at her. "I'm a sergeant in the Marine Corps. I take orders. What do I know about the Department of Defense?"

"You don't _just_ take orders, Miles. You must think about things. After all you've been through."

Miles sighed. This was typical Rachel and Ben. Taking orders was tantamount to ignorant resignation, while 'thinking' somehow unlocked all the mysteries of the world. "Rachel, go ahead and say your piece. Don't know that I can help, but I'll listen."

Rachel squeezed the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. "A project of mine got picked up by the DOD – something that could be dangerous. That could be used as a weapon. Now I can't take it back. Since Ben left, I keep getting all of these phone calls demanding more assistance…and I owe them. I owe them." Rachel worked to stop tears from rising to choke her. It hadn't been until she'd uttered this aloud that she realized the incredible weight she had been sinking under.

Miles lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I understand. I mean – you gave them something you can't take back; ok, that I get. Well, I'm sure it's some science thing I _don't_ really get, but the situation I understand. But if you don't want to talk to them anymore – stop. What could you possibly owe the Department of Defense?"

"Danny," came the abrupt response.

"What?" Miles asked.

"Danny."

"I heard you. But what is this: Rumpelstiltskin? You owe someone your firstborn son?"

"When I was pregnant, I found out that Danny probably wasn't going to make it, and they helped save him. They got me access to the doctors and treatments I needed."

"Rachel…I didn't know. I mean I knew Danny wasn't doing that great but…" Miles didn't move. He wasn't that good at comforting people, and this was heavy.

All at once, Rachel asked with tremendous intensity, "What would you say if I told you the world was going to end?"

_What the fuck?_ said Miles's brain. He looked down at Rachel in alarm. "What d'you mean, like you guys invented a new atomic bomb?"

"Maybe…yes? But we didn't mean to."

"Jesus," Miles's lips barely moved.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Present: The Western Campaign**

The weather had finally turned. It was as if the clouds had been building up sleet, ice, and snow since November, and finally, at this tipping point in late January, had been given orders to unleash their wrath. At the moment, the snow fell in impenetrable, wet flakes that managed to soak through everyone's coats. Further, it was coming down so fast that Miles was starting to worry that the men were going to get buried in it. He silently thanked Zep for bearing misery on his own behalf, but the foot soldiers needed reprieve. Everyone, including the general and president, had wrapped their heads in whatever extra clothes they had brought along to keep warm. Bedecked with makeshift turbans, they looked ludicrously like the Rashidun army of the 7th century.

"We've got to find indoor quarters for the men until this storm passes. Isn't the Pittsburgh airport around here somewhere?" Miles asked, trying to make out Bass through the dense snow. Bass was riding another officer's horse – a very unlucky officer, as it turned out.

Bass practically yelled to be heard through all the fabric covering his head and Miles's: "I don't know, man. You looked at the maps."

"Well, I can't remember. Parson!" Miles called loudly. Parson was their chief topographical engineer.

Parson rode toward them and, for a moment, looked like he was going to bypass them entirely.

"Yes sir," Parson reported, when he had located his commanding officers in the white blindness.

"Need to head for an airport to quarter these troops and horses in the hangars. Is the Pittsburgh airport the one on this side of the city?"

"No, sir: Arnold Palmer Regional. I can show you on the map." Parson peered at the general through the nearly opaque curtain of fat flakes. "Except, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to show you anything when I can barely see _you_." The snow was so wet and heavy chances were it would ruin the maps anyway.

"All right. I've got an idea," Miles responded.

A moment later, Miles, Bass, and Parson had dismounted and were kneeling on the snow beneath a blanket held aloft by several orderlies. The scene looked comically like the schoolyard game parachute. It was dark enough under the blanket that Miles had to light a candle, which he perched in a tin cup so that it wouldn't drip wax on the paper. Parson held the map, Miles the light, and Bass the compass. Their knees were quickly drenched, and Bass kept shifting uncomfortably in an attempt to preserve his ankle.

"Arnold Palmer's only three miles or so from here," Miles noted. "That's good news. Let's just hope no one else is hunkered down there," he added glumly, a clear indication that he thought someone else was indeed hunkered down there - most likely the Pittsburgh Army.

Miles waited for Parson to re-stow the maps before ordering the soldiers to remove the blanket and then offering his hand to Bass. Miles failed to take the hint when Bass rejected the hand, and instead, Miles pulled him up by the shoulder.

"I'm fine," Bass said in a low, grumpy voice so that only Miles could hear. "Stop making me look weak in front of the men." The constant thudding pain of the ankle along with the change in weather was wearing on Bass's patience. All he wanted was those airplane hangars to be empty so that they could wait out the storm and he could put his foot up, but he knew this was unlikely. What was likely was that another battle would take place within the next hour.

As predicted, there was a climactic confrontation at the airport, which had been converted into storage units for food, supplies, and weapons. Miles knew casualties would be high, but he also knew it would be worth it. Controlling Pittsburgh's largest stockpile would mean the city was theirs. And so they went for broke in the midst of the worst snowstorm Miles had seen in a long time. Miles was able to force a surrender when he personally captured the army's commanding officer. After the battle, the landscape appeared a patchwork of white snow, red blood, and blue-clad bodies – a macabre parody of the patriotism that once was. Fallen soldiers were quickly obscured as nature continued to pummel the earth, unaware of the high-stakes contest that had taken place.

Miles and Bass retired into a hangar, where Bass packed snow on his ankle. The best friends nursed coffees as they grimly received the casualty reports. The mortalities were sickening, but those militiamen who'd survived had been transformed into veterans. Miles marveled at the change in their faces as they sat around quietly, drinking whiskey. The whiskey had been a gift from Miles from the Pittsburgh stores - a little valentine from their grateful general.

Bass's voice broke Miles's trance. "Why not kill the CO?" Bass asked. Miles had kept the Pittsburgh Army's commanding officer alive and even promised to take him back to Philly with them. "They're beat. We've won."

"Nah, this isn't over. The PA'll lick their wounds and re-concentrate. And there are dozens of other militias out there that their CO might know something about. He's worth keeping."

Bass scoffed, "He'll never talk, Miles. Just think about it – if you or I were captured, we wouldn't give up information like that."

Miles leaned back against the wall so that his shoulder was just touching Bass's. Miles looked at his friend, who gazed back at him, their faces studying each other. "There are ways of making people talk, Bass," Miles finally explained.

"Interrogation?" Bass lifted an eyebrow. "I still don't think it will work."

"People break. They're only human." Miles looked away, his eyes unfocused.

Bass kept staring at the side of his best friend's face. "Did they break you?" Bass had never asked Miles about his experience in the Afghan prison. Even now the words came out with a kind of reverence, like how one would ask God how He'd created the world.

Miles continued staring ahead to the point where Bass thought he wouldn't answer, and the words would simply hang in space forever, but finally Miles turned back and met Bass's eyes.

"I was just a sergeant - had nothing to give up they didn't already know." Miles shrugged a little, but his face was serious and still. "But…I would have done anything to make them kill me. So: yes. They broke me."

Bass continued to look at him with an expression bordering on awe. When Bass thought about it, he'd probably already guessed that, so he wasn't exactly sure what he'd gained by making Miles admit it. But somehow it gave Bass a kind of sick satisfaction. "More coffee?" Bass asked, changing the subject. He removed the snow pack and gingerly stretched his ankle.

"Nah, but I'll get you some. Stay off that ankle. It looks like you could pop it with a pin," Miles said, getting up and snatching away Bass's tin cup. Miles half smiled at Bass before departing. Bass watched his friend amble away in his trademark casual but powerful manner, stopping to check on the troops here and there. Bass noted the proud jubilation on each man's face that Miles passed. The men looked at Miles differently than him.

Bass gazed down at his lap. It had been awhile since he'd thought about his rescue of Miles in Afghanistan, but every time he did, it unleashed a deeper ache. Miles's loss – however unquantifiable – was forever linked in Bass's subconscious to his own loss of his family one year later in a drunk driving accident. The brain had a way of connecting trauma to trauma, pain to pain, and if you thought about it too much, that's all there was.

Bass was now officially stuck in his own head, thinking about the night Miles found him sobbing at his family's gravesites. Miles had asked for Bass's gun, and Bass had given it up. Bass was gripped by cold regret – not because he hadn't killed himself when he'd had the chance, but because he'd appeared so pathetic. There was the rub. Miles of the purple hearts, of the medals for bravery, had come out the other side of his own ordeal - and even Bass's ordeal - a hero. Bass had emerged a weakling. Bass's regret threatened to edge into anger.

He tried to shake it off, since Miles had come back and held a cup of steaming coffee under his nose. "Here, buddy. You ok?"

'You ok?' was like a catch phrase with Miles – his universal way of showing love. It drew Bass away from his troubled thoughts. Miles had knelt down next to Bass and was examining the ankle, which had turned violet.

"Tomorrow you and I are going home. We'll leave a garrison here to hold the stores. I've already sent word to Jeremy for more troops. You don't get a say in this. You've been on that ankle long enough."

"I wasn't going to object," Bass assured him, a half grin spreading on his face.

"What?" Miles asked almost irritably.

"Now that you're general, you act like a doting mother," Bass informed him, hoping Miles didn't hear the edge to the compliment.

"Bullshit," Miles objected, rising to his feet. Miles was well aware that he was neither warm nor fuzzy.

Bass laughed lightly and then forced himself to say aloud what he knew was true. "No, man, you're a natural at this. The troops…they really love and respect you."

"That's just the whiskey ration," Miles shrugged humbly.

"Well, since we came on this campaign, you've won three significant battles. You'd better watch out, or the men might think you're invincible." Bass lifted his eyebrows.

Miles put his hands on his hips and exhaled loudly. "Yeah. Go on, Bass. Pave the road to hell." He then clapped Bass on the back – another universal sign of Miles's affection.

Bass's smile broadened. "I thought the road to hell was paved with good intentions."

* * *

Bass should have known the campaign would not end on such a cheery note. They were almost all the back to Philly, riding in West Chester through the midday market. People were milling about despite the snow, trading wild turkeys, root vegetables, and fur pelts as in the days of old.

In Bass's peripheral vision, he noticed a drunken bum clad in filthy rags pulling at a woman's shirt. The woman screamed and shoved at him, but the advances continued. Bass rode over. He sensed that Miles had followed.

"Back away from the lady, sir," Bass said, using his most gentlemanly tone to mask an incredible bubble of rage that had risen into his throat. _Fucking drunks_ , Bass thought, _always preying on the innocent._

"Fuck off! This's private business," the man slurred. His face was grimy, and he had a broad unibrow that contrasted with his bright blue eyes.

Bass felt Miles's horse shift on the right of him. "Bass…" Miles cautioned, which Bass ignored.

Bass drew his pistol and aimed it at the man's chest. "I said _now_. That's an order from your president."

"My what? I never agreed to no president," the man laughed. So Bass shot. The drunk fell down dead.

Instantly, Bass sensed a rise in the crowd and heard a shot from his right. A man holding a gun dropped to the ground. Bass's brain slowly registered that the man had intended to shoot him, but Miles had put a bullet in his brain first. Then chaos ensued. A number of other citizens produced weapons and began shooting, and Bass had to force his unfamiliar horse off to the side to avoid being hit. From there, he leveled his pistol at one after another armed civilians, shooting each in the head until finally a hush came over the crowd.

"Citizens!" Bass called to the horrified onlookers, some of whom were already weeping over the fresh bodies, pulling at their soaked clothing, their lifeless arms. "You know by now that it is a crime punishable by death to be caught with firearms. I'll show the rest of you leniency, if you surrender them now." Bass nodded for the soldiers to collect the guns from the dead and any others who produced them.

Bass continued, "Now you see the consequences of playing with guns. This law is for your own protection."

Miles didn't speak to Bass until they were home again. Bass wanted nothing more than to strip naked and wash away the memories of the day in a hot bath. Yet Miles followed him all the way upstairs and into Bass's room without an invitation. Bass didn't look back but felt Miles's presence like a fucking Eeyore rain cloud.

"What!" Bass snapped at last. "I need a bath, Miles. Get the hell out of my room."

"No," came the sullen reply.

Still standing, Bass began untying and pulling off his boots. He finally glanced up to see the familiar black eyes narrowed with anger.

"Jesus, Miles. Can't we just celebrate our victory? Or do you have to spoil everything?" Bass threw one boot and then the other into the corner. Thud, thud.

Miles lifted his chin. "Was that our victory lap: killing a bunch of civilians? One campaign into this, and we've given up on the rules of civilized warfare?"

"Oh! Wonderful," Bass bit sarcastically. "You are really one to talk, Mother Fucking Teresa. Wasn't it you who ordered – let's see, what were there – nine prisoners gunned down? Last time I checked it's not _civilized_ to kill prisoners of war, and yet that didn't stop you. You made a pretty fucking compelling argument in favor of it. So here's my compelling argument: did you not _see_ how many of our citizens were still armed to the teeth?" Bass was practically breathless with ire.

"I saw. It's not the same thing. The prisoners had volunteered to fight – to risk their lives. The civilians we shot were just people at the market." Miles waited before continuing. "You know what I think?"

" _What_?" Bass spat.

"You shot that man because –"

"Because what, Miles? Go on and fucking say it, you coward." Bass got right in Miles's face. He resented that he was shorter than Miles and regretted removing his boots.

Miles said with eerie calm, "Back up, Bass."

"No. Get the fuck out of my room," Bass hissed. His fingers actually twitched.

Miles waited another beat and then walked out. And somehow, Bass hated him for his restraint.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Past**

Miles awoke suddenly, sensing an emptiness in the bed beside him. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. He and Rachel had had sex again, and Ben was coming home this weekend to see him. And it was just like Rachel said: Miles already wanted Rachel again so badly that his body seemed to be diverting an unhealthy amount of blood to his pelvic region. His legs felt numb. He needed a cold shower. Besides, as usual, it was hot as hell in the Matheson duplex. Maybe he should go check on their boiler to see if there was actually something wrong with it.

Miles forced on his jeans and headed toward the bathroom without a shirt. On his way, he ran into Rachel – a development that produced visible discomfort in both of them.

"Hey," Miles greeted her, scratching his head reflexively. Rachel's eyes had traveled down to the tattoos covering both of Miles's upper arms. He felt guilty for having forgone the shirt.

"Hey," she said back. "I'm off to work. Do you want to pick Ben up at the airport tomorrow? He also mentioned that we could watch the Superbowl together on Sunday."

Miles nearly laughed. "Ben doesn't watch football. I don't think he went to a single one of my games in high school."

"Sure he did…you were some kind of catcher, right?" Rachel's pretty face screwed up as she tried to think about what that might be called in football terms.

"I was a wide receiver. Jesus, Rachel, don't hurt your brain," Miles said, fully smiling now.

"Well."

Rachel gave a little shrug that Miles found so adorable, he wanted to gather her into his arms and squeeze. Besides, she looked like she wanted a closer look at his biceps.

Rachel forged ahead, "Ben said to invite over whoever you want for the game. It could be a little gathering."

"You guys hate my friends from high school." Miles lifted an eyebrow.

"No, we don't. We just don't really have anything in common with them."

Miles regarded Rachel with a smirk. "I'll pick up Ben at the airport, and I'll invite over a few of my most docile buddies." He noticed that Rachel was now staring somewhere in the region of his bellybutton.

"Miles?" Rachel asked, her eyes rising to meet his. "I told you that the world might end…and you didn't ask me why. Aren't you at all curious as to what Ben and I built?"

Miles watched Rachel's elegant neck swallow. "I think you're overreacting – whatever it is. The government makes weapons all the time…things you wouldn't believe. The sh – stuff Bass and I have seen and heard about – drones, chemical weapons, Christ, even biological stuff - you wouldn't believe it, Rachel. I'm sorry you got mixed up in it, but if the world falls apart, I doubt you will be single-handedly to blame. In fact, I _know_ you won't."

This might have been more words than Rachel had ever heard Miles string together, and she was so infinitely grateful to him that she wanted to run over and fling her arms around his neck, resting her head against the soft hair that lined his chiseled chest. That would be inappropriate, however, so she simply said, "Thanks," and swallowed again.

Miles found he was sweating into his jeans and suddenly wished he'd thought to put on boxers. Apparently volcanic temperatures and commando did not mix. Miles asked Rachel, "Is there something wrong with your heat? It's hot as hell in here – I can go to the basement and check on the boiler, if you want."

Rachel looked at Miles like he had stepped off the moon. "I always forget you're actually handy," she responded. "Ben's…well, he's more of a theorist, so if anything's going to get fixed around here, it's going to be by me. Anyway, the heat's fine. Is that why you've decided to stop wearing shirts?" She didn't wait for him to answer but turned and mumbled as she walked away: "Distracting as hell." Then she couldn't help herself - she shot Miles a coy glance over her shoulder. In return, she saw desire darken his eyes, but she kept walking.

* * *

Miles didn't know how it would feel to see his brother again, but as soon as he picked up Ben, he realized he felt something that he hadn't been expecting: anger. Whether the anger was because Ben stood in the way of Miles's happiness or it was a misguided expression of Miles's own guilt, he didn't know. But Miles attempted to mask the feeling by appearing as cheerful as possible.

In the car, Miles even orated at length about the NFL season leading up to the current Superbowl. Ben just smiled the same old crinkly-eyed smile and kept asking encouraging questions. It was Saturday, so that evening Miles went out to visit some of his old friends and left Rachel and Ben to…reunite. Miles tried not to think about what that might entail. It wasn't fair to be jealous. He diverted his excess negativity toward tequila shots and beer, which had the secondary benefit of taking the edge off his first night out with actual friends since he'd come home from Afghanistan. The good thing about his dickish pals from high school was they never asked about his deployments. They mainly complained about their wives and kids, checked out the bartenders' breasts, and talked sports.

At home, Rachel was forced to confront her own changed feelings toward her husband. In preparation, she put on the rattiest t-shirt she owned (a gift from her mother that actually sported an image of the haloed Virgin Mary) and flannel pants she had stolen from Ben to accommodate her pregnancies. She took forever to put the baby down, hoping that Ben would just fall asleep, but he was sitting up in bed reading when she finally retired into their bedroom.

"So, Miles looks like he's improved a lot! You must have really helped him to recover, Hun. It's wonderful," Ben greeted her, putting out his arms to embrace her as she gingerly crawled under the blankets.

The irony of Ben's words pummeled Rachel in the stomach. She had done her part to help Miles recover, all right.

"Missed you," Ben said warmly, allowing one of his hands to brush her breast. Rachel tried not to visibly wince.

She responded, "Missed you too. It's been hard with Miles. I think it'd be easier if he just went back to base." Only after Rachel said this did she realize how little she wanted Miles to leave. She began thinking back to his bare chest this morning in the hallway.

"Rachel," Ben said with a gentle urgency. "Miles needs to be with family. He's been through a severe trauma. Has he said anything to you about what happened to him out there…I mean specifically?"

"Not really," Rachel shook her head, perishing the image of a half-naked Miles. "He said something about 'perverse' things. But well…Miles doesn't say much, Ben. You know that."

"Perverse, huh? He used that word?" Ben asked with concern.

Rachel nodded, looking down at the Virgin Mary.

"Well, I'm not surprised. I spoke to Sebastian just a little before Miles came home – just to know what we'd be dealing with. Bass said they found Miles naked, chained in place, and covered in his own filth. I think he had some internal wounds as well," Ben added with a profound sadness. "Bass said Miles begged Bass to kill him." Ben shuddered.

Rachel was feeling so sick, she didn't know if she could continue to listen to this. How could she have taken advantage of a man who had just been through something like that? _She_ was perverse.

"But like I said, it looks like he's doing much better thanks to you. You're like this amazing mother to everyone around you. I really admire you."

Rachel's mouth was dry. She felt Ben's breath on her cheek as he moved in to kiss her. Slowly his lips traveled to her neck. Rachel realized that they hadn't had sex since she had given birth to Danny. Ben had been patient all this time.

"Ben," she croaked, "I'm not really in the mood…"

"Well, let me put you in the mood. I miss you so much," Ben urged.

She couldn't see a way out of it, and so she let him. And it was agony.

* * *

On Superbowl Sunday, Ben took the kids out for a few hours to spend some quality time, while Rachel prepared food for the guests. It promised to be a weird conglomeration of scientists and jocks. Awkwardness would most definitely ensue and that was before you even considered that Rachel was sleeping with her brother-in-law.

Miles was plucking a guitar in the living room and humming absentmindedly when Rachel called to him from the kitchen:

"Miles? Do you mind chopping some vegetables for this chili?"

Miles was there in an instant. She felt the heat of his large body just inches behind her. She turned around with a considerable knife, which forced Miles back a few steps, achieving the desired effect.

Miles frowned. "Just to warn you, I'm a disgusting cook."

"Well, I'm not asking you to cook; I'm asking you to chop." Rachel had already turned back to face the counter. His presence was making her sweat. He was in a black t-shirt and jeans and looked mouth-wateringly good. She took him in in small glances out of the corner of her eye, as he chopped to her right.

Miles diced the carrots, celery, and onions at such a break-neck speed that Rachel finally stopped her own food prepping to survey him.

"Is it wise to cut so quickly?" she asked in mock alarm.

"No. It's fun," Miles assured her. Chop, chop, chop.

"You'll cut off your fingers!"

"I wield weapons for a living. I've got this," Miles answered suavely, showing off now.

Just then, the front door opened and Charlie came thundering in as usual, followed shortly thereafter by Ben carrying Danny. Danny wasn't crying for once.

"Cool!" Charlie called when she saw Miles brandishing his knife at top speed. "I try?" she asked her uncle eagerly.

Miles half smiled down at her then kept chopping. "No."

"Can I have one?" Charlie asked Miles, pointing at the M tattoo on his lower arm.

"No," Miles said again, fully grinning, still vigorously chopping.

"Enough! I need diced vegetables, not essence of vegetables!" Rachel critiqued, sliding away the laden cutting board from Miles.

Charlie pouted and put up her arms. "Up?" she asked Miles, who had finally put the knife down.

Miles was surprised by the request. He had never picked up Charlie before. Frankly, he didn't know why Charlie was always so interested in him, being as he rarely spoke to anyone, most especially not her. He liked her, but he didn't really know what to say to kids. He wasn't interested in coloring or reading dumb books, so he found he had little common ground with Charlie. She was, however, startlingly articulate, which made her easier to interact with than most squirts.

Miles decided it wouldn't be nice to say 'no' again. He lifted Charlie up, and she had a pleasing weight. Her little arms grasped tightly around his neck, and her head fell instantly on his shoulder. Miles found that he was blushing. For the first time in his life, he realized how oddly intimate it felt to be an uncle. His brother's child…well, she _loved_ him, if for no other reason than that they were related by blood. He looked at Rachel, who smiled familiarly at him and lightly touched his arm to reassure him.

From across the room, Ben watched his daughter embrace Miles and smiled. There was nothing like children to heal wounds. Then he watched as his wife touched Miles's arm. It happened for the briefest of moments such that Ben almost thought he'd imagined it. But there was something there. Something that made him uncomfortable. It couldn't possibly be what he thought - Rachel was just trying to make Miles feel at home. And yet…

Later during the game, Ben tried to confirm his budding fear. He couldn't believe that either of them would act on any feelings, but the idea that there might _be_ feelings was by itself unbearable.

Miles was siting on the floor with a beer in his hand, yelling and pumping his fists along with his friends. He was in his element – always so effortlessly cool, Ben thought. It occasionally made Ben a little jealous, though Rachel frequently reassured him: being smart _is_ cool.

One of Ben's computer programmer friends from the U of Chicago was rambling on about Python aphorisms to his left, but Ben couldn't tear his eyes away from Rachel. Truth to tell, Ben's friend probably didn't notice he wasn't being listened to – Pete could hold court with a brick wall.

"Beautiful is better than ugly. Explicit is better than implicit. Simple is better than complex," droned Pete.1

Rachel's radiant face appeared to be entranced by the television, but Ben knew that his wife understood nothing about football. Sure enough, every ten minutes or so she would just shift her eyes to take in Miles, who sat across the room. The vaguest of smiles would play at her lips and then flicker gone.

Miles, for his part, appeared content enough until he believed no one was watching. In those spaces, when every eye was fixated on the screen, Miles's own eyes would just drop to his lap, his shoulders sag, and there it was: the soul-deep melancholy. He didn't look at Rachel, but he didn't need to. Ben knew how patient Miles could be when he wanted something badly enough. Once, on a fishing trip with their pop, Miles had sat with his line in the water for six hours determined to catch a fish. He caught a shoe. So Miles had gone out again the next day and the day after that until he came home with a fish.

It dawned on Ben that he had missed a few very important weeks in Miles's life. Ben had made a choice to go to Stanford. He realized now: it had been the wrong choice.

"Practicality beats purity. Errors should never pass silently. Unless explicitly silenced. In the face of ambiguity, refuse the temptation to guess." Pete again.2

Ben shook off his trance, just as Rachel became totally fed up with Pete's monologue. "Pete. Seriously," Rachel said to him. "That little guy just averted catastrophic collision with those big guys, only to fall face-first across a magical yellow line called 'first down.' Get excited."

Pete blinked at her. Rachel shot Ben a half smile that he found he couldn't return.

* * *

1\. The tenets of Python computer language are summarized in "PEP 20 (The Zen of Python)," including some of the statements made here by Ben's friend, Pete. Visit python dot org for details.

2\. Ibid.


	15. Chapter 15

**The Present: Five Years After the Blackout, The Trenton Campaign**

"If you're dying, I'm dying with you."

The words ricocheted in Miles's spent brain as he hovered in that mysterious, timeless space between earth and heaven - if there were a heaven. Who was he shitting? If there were a heaven, he was not going to it. The noble empire Miles and Bass had painstakingly laid in place piece by piece had from the very beginning been hideously marred. After over four years of constant, wearying combat with unhappy citizenry, here in Trenton, New Jersey - exactly the spot where George Washington had turned around his own Revolutionary War fortunes - Miles had lost it all. The American Patriots' Cause had been judged virtuous by history because in victory they had brandished the pens, but no one would live to eulogize the pathetic, fallen Monroe Republic.

The Pittsburgh Army had only been the beginning of what Miles and Bass had been up against since that earliest Western Campaign. In short succession they encountered the Lazarus Brothers, the Ohio River Rangers, and the Midwestern Military, and when those fell, new threats simply rose in their places. Finally, after several years, the scattered cells gathered into one giant storm and crashed down upon the capital city of the Republic, but Miles had successfully run them into New Jersey. There, intending to deliver a death blow and finally to taste the sweetness of peace, Miles had critically overestimated his men. He'd grown to believe in the lie of his own vainglory: that he and his army were invincible.

The enemy forces had beaten the Monroe Militia to the high ground in Trenton and formed a neat half moon of textbook interior lines – but Miles hadn't seen it…until he had. Then, instead of falling back and regrouping, he hadn't wanted to damage his men's morale by appearing to retreat, so he attacked right down the middle. It only took one big mistake to fracture his magnificent army. And, fittingly, Miles had taken a bullet in the abdomen as he watched it happen.

Lying there behind the makeshift fortifications, Miles had asked Bass to lead the men, but Bass refused to leave his side.

"If you're dying, I'm dying with you."

Miles had answered, "Bass, this is bigger than us. The men need you. You can do this."

Miles added the last part when he saw the doubt cloud Bass's piercing blue eyes. It wasn't just that Bass didn't want Miles to die alone; Bass was scared. He didn't believe that he _could_ lead the militia. Maybe that was Miles's fault. Maybe he hadn't shown enough faith in his friend, and now when he really needed the commander-in-chief to step up, Bass didn't have the nerve.

Miles didn't remain conscious long enough to learn what happened next. His body betrayed him, as bodies are wont to do.

Apparently before dying, one feels like one's very skin is being sewn - a needle and thread pulling at the ragged edges of the most tender meat of the body and then stringing back through it with edged yarn. The agony jarred Miles back from the abyss.

"Don't wake up just yet, General – a little bit longer," a soothing voice encouraged.

Miles defied it and opened his eyes to exploding pain. "Uh," he whimpered, as Doc Arora's kind face swam before him. Sure enough, the doc was sewing up his side.

"I told you not to wake, Miles. It's ok. You've been shot, but we have you. We're fixing you up – right as rain," Doc explained, pleasantly rolling the r's. "You see where I come from, there isn't much rain, so we don't have such sayings. Oh, but you knew that – you were in Afghanistan once. Long ago, before the black came." Arora chuckled and sewed.

Miles felt drugged, and Arora's words made little sense to him. Miles tried not to picture himself as the macabre home economics experiment he had been reduced to.

"You're a little drunk," Doc explained. "I had to find some way to relax you. No ether, no chloroform. Just whiskey. Who knew we'd come to this so quickly?" Doc paused. "Here's your friend, Miles: the president."

Miles tried to focus on the feeling of warmth spreading in his hand from Bass's touch.

"Miles. We won. It's over," came the familiar voice – the gentle voice that was reserved for wounded Miles. How many wounds had Bass helped Miles through in his career as a Marine and soldier…it was wearying to ponder.

Miles tried to shift his head to look at Bass.

"Mm," Miles winced. "We won? But I fucked up."

"You did ok, buddy. We came back. Kip organized a counteroffensive on the enemy's left flank."

"Kip," Miles mumbled gratefully.

"Yeah, Kip and Neville together, actually."

"Neville?"

"You trained them well, Miles. This victory's to your credit."

"In spite of me…"

"No, man. Don't say that." Bass squeezed Miles's hand. "You've been working on this for years."

"Proud of you…for leading," Miles managed. He urgently wanted Bass to understand that he was appreciated in case this was their last conversation. Miles felt like he was drifting away again.

"Hey. I'm proud of _you_. Congratulations, General: the Monroe Republic is secure."

Miles had closed his eyes again. He vaguely heard Doc Arora say, "He'll probably survive, but I can't say for sure, Mr. President. For now, I'd just let him sleep. He's been through a lot."

Bass nodded and stepped away but remained in the medical tent staring at the wan Miles, a pile of bloody bandages to his left. Bass searched himself for an answer to the question weighing down his tired, joyless being _: Was winning worth it if Miles died?_

Never for one moment had Bass imagined leading the Monroe Republic without his best friend.

* * *

**The Future**

"Ben."

"Miles."

The two brothers had agreed to meet in a place called Zion, Illinois, just a few miles from the border with Wisconsin. It was somehow fitting that after all these years they would reunite in a Promised Land of sorts. Miles and Bass had never made it to Chicago while they ruled the Monroe Republic together. It was only much later – after Miles deserted, after things fell apart with Nora – that Miles finally went home.

This was the first time that Miles had laid eyes on his other brother since the blackout.

Ben kept his distance, the smile crinkles by his eyes long since faded into tired crows feet. He stared stoically at Miles, allowing cold judgment to slosh in the space between them. Miles had never seen such a look in Ben's eyes – he hadn't thought his kindhearted brother capable of such contempt. But Miles had lost the ability to discern his own self-loathing from the looks he read on other's faces. It was why, these days, he stayed slightly drunk most of the time.

To Miles's surprise, Ben's first question was: "How is she?"

The inquiry tugged at the stitches of an ancient wound in Miles's chest. "I didn't get her out," Miles answered after a pained pause.

Ben blinked. "So after all that, you couldn't even keep her safe?"

"I failed at everything," Miles agreed.

Ben's eyes shone with unfathomable sadness. And then something worse: "You could still change, you know. Do something right."

"I am doing something right: I'm not hurting people anymore."

"You're hiding in Chicago. At a bar."

Miles nodded, because technically that was true.

"Well, at least you're focusing on your less destructive talent: drinking."

Miles swallowed. "What's my other talent?"

"You know what it is."

Miles stared at Ben until it hurt too much. Then he looked to the side. "How are your kids?"

"They are doing surprisingly well considering they were born to one of the most dangerous families in human history," Ben offered.

Miles cocked his head at Ben. Miles had had his share of hubristic downfall and would leave the superfluity to his big brother for the time being. "I only hope they live to enjoy obscurity," Miles said simply.

Ben almost smiled. "Me too."

"Ben, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

Ben nodded.

"Why did you want to meet me here?" Miles asked in a final moment of curiosity.

"I needed to confirm something."

"Rachel?"

"No, I guessed she would have come back to see the kids if she were still alive."

"Then…?"

"You came when I asked," Ben said.

"Of course."

Ben gazed at Miles steadily, as if this were his answer. Finally Ben asked his own question: "Did Rachel ever tell you why the power went out?"

"No."

"Do you want to know?"

"No. I told her never to tell me."

"Why not?"

"Because, Ben. Power isn't safe with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I feel so much better having this on AO3. I really believe in what this site is doing for fandoms!


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